


Giving Up and Similar Sentiments

by Maedelmae



Series: The Noble Race of the Haltija [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ancient Races, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Gold Sickness (Tolkien), Hurt/Comfort, I made up history, Minor Character Death, Multi, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, War, no beta we die like men, not a hobbit!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maedelmae/pseuds/Maedelmae
Summary: Bilbo Baggins isn't really a Hobbit.Sure, he walks like a hobbit, talks like a hobbit (debatable), and looks like a hobbit, but he isn't. He is a member of an ancient race put to sleep 70,000 years ago and has just woken up. After a great personal tragedy, he finds himself lost in a modern age that he can't relate to and neighbors that don't take kindly to oddities like him.So, he finds himself going along with Thorin's company in seek of a greater purpose in life, seeking reason behind the fall of his people and why after all this time he was woken up.But how will he survive with the contempt of the dwarves? Follow along as Bilbo travels a long way to Erebor and then the Beyond.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Dwalin, Bilbo Baggins & Hamfast Gamgee, Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Series: The Noble Race of the Haltija [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711552
Comments: 42
Kudos: 88





	1. A Lot's Gonna Change

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for well over a year now, and I've reached the end of the second movie. I have decided to post it now because I really want it out there and I am kind of tired of waiting. 
> 
> This first chapter serves as mostly a prologue, so forgive the lack of actual content. I will be posting weekly on mondays until the end of the story. 
> 
> Thank you for clicking on this and I hope you all like the story. 
> 
> (Chapter title after the Weyes Blood song "A Lot's Gonna Change".)
> 
> edit 11/20/20: I've rewritten parts of the summary, just to explain the story a little better. I hope that new readers enjoy the story. The reason this is part of a series is not for a sequel but rather for some history--don't worry it's not anything that anybody has to stick around for. Anyway, buckle in, get comfortable, get a snack and a glass of water, and enjoy! :8)

.oOo.

In a quaint place just south west of Rivendell, there was a land formally titled the Shire. In this Shire, there were Hobbits. Hobbits were a quaint folk that matched their quaint location. They never wandered around looking for trouble. A community of farmers they were. Civilized people. No one would look at a Hobbit and think them a vicious beast, not with their curly heads that seldom reached the height of a man’s waist. 

However, the story does not quite start here in the Shire, but rather just outside of its southern border in the old forest near the Brandywine river. This woodland was odd, it was magic. In this old forest, the trees grew tall and thick, there was very little underbrush consisting of mostly moses and ivy. The grass was inconsistent in its height, providing cover for all of the residents of the woodland; no matter big or small. These things were largely unimportant, as the real magic to these woods were its unique trees. The trees had a way about them, one would think they were people once for how lifelike and personable they seemed. One could tell each tree apart from each other based on the bearing of the tree’s limbs, whether or not they had knots in their trunks, or the growth patterns of the bark. 

This life-likeness gave way to the truth, that the trees were once a noble race of people. They had been a warrior race not too different from the (now) modern day elves. However, they were much more simplistic in their bearing—possessing a deep love for good earth and all things growing; this, partnered with the burning desire to eradicate all evil from their beautiful land as well as their towering height ensured that they were never mistaken for an elf. These elf-like people were connected so close and deeply to the earth that they sometimes shifted into the surrounding nature and never came back. These “almost elves'' were called Haltija and were fairly common before the creation, or the start of the first age, when Arda was still a new and developing world. The Valar Yavannah had given them creation when she planted the first trees, asking them to guard her creations from the stirrings of darkness and evil from the Valar Morgoth. The Haltija ran amongst the trees and fought often, hidden from the view of the other gods by the thick canopy of trees Yavannah protected them and gave them purpose with. 

Many years passed (this time would later be estimated to be around 7,063 years), and Yavannah went into her sleep. Then, a dark age was set upon Arda. All life on the entirety of Middle Earth was endangered and the balance was thrown from its original order. The Haltija were hunted by what they used to hunt. The predators turned into prey by the dark and cruel creatures of Morgoth. The other Valar had not deigned to help them as Yavannah hadn’t told them of her creations. The Valar grew merciless and cruel towards the race and let them suffer as their numbers were swiftly cut down. The Haltija, with nowhere to go and seeing that the Valar would not help their plight, turned to the slowly dying earth and joined with its life, turning into the very trees they were to protect. 

When Yavannah next awoke, she was distraught. The Valar had tricked her and had weakened her from sensing her prized people. In her eyes, her once abundant people were gone, vanished without a trace. She did not know where they went or even if they were still alive, and so she mourned their existence. Seeing this, the other Valar took pity on her and allowed her to create the Ent people, shepherds to the trees; though they did not reverse their imposition of the Haltijan people. They had been cast out of the loving eye of any and all Valar and left to wither as they remained in their place as trees, bare to the elements.

Now, in the third age, the old forest sat largely untouched by the people around it. The Haltija slept as trees, unable to remember or fathom that they were once people. This was true for a large majority, however, there was one such Haltija that remembered legs, that remembered lungs, and a heartbeat. This person was Beijar, who was just a youngling when his people were forced into hiding. Beijar was an excitable Haltija and often grew too fidgety to be considered a tree. His branches always creaking, his bark always shifting, his roots always crawling, his leaves always falling. His mother Bihana and father Beimyar were always scolding him with the wind, but Beijar couldn’t help it, and his mother understood this for she too was once an excited youngling. 

Time passed in the mere blink of an eye and a race had inhabited the lands just north west of the forest. Small creatures moved around in the forest, much like they had before becoming trees. The Haltija were understandably frightened of this development after ages of isolation. 

On a warm summer day in the year 2908 of the third age, the oddest thing happened. Three creatures came into the forest and had spent the better part of the afternoon exploring the old forest before deciding to take a break and leaning against Beijar, Bihana, and Beimyar. No sentient being had ever rested against, let alone  _ touched  _ one of the Haltija before, and so when the three poofed into a puff of smoke and reappeared as the creatures who had rested against them, everybody was understandably shocked. 

Beijar was excited, he had yearned for the opportunity to run free once more, though he mourned his previous humanoid form. His height had been magnanimous, closer to the canopies of the forest than the floor, but he supposed that this new form would be exciting. What was not exciting was the language barrier. He looked over to his mother and father who were freaking out along with the creatures that changed them in the first place. The Haltija language, Haljitar, was a smooth language, rolling off the tongue like water, carrying like a breeze, the language the creatures spoke were harsher, much more flat, less flowy. 

They were taken in by the Baggins family—in name only for they lent no further aid to the three foreigners. His name was no longer Beijar, it was Bilbo Baggins. His mother’s name was no longer Bihana, but rather Belladonna Baggins. His father’s name was no longer Beimyar, but now Bungo Baggins. The small creatures they had turned into were called Hobbits, and from Beijar’s understanding, they were connected to no Valar, they had no God and no creator. They did have a proclivity towards growing things: plants, animals, and families, nothing they did was in small quantities. Beijar, now Bilbo, was forced along with his parents to fit in this mold they were presented. It was hard. Beimyar built them a hobbitish house, and they were now expected to learn the new culture or be ostracized until they could find a way to be in their original forms. 

.oOo.


	2. Mirror Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will the change from ancient elf to hobbit be for young Bilbo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow, 
> 
> I'm posting a new chapter today because, once more, I grew impatient. Additionally, what with the social distancing and quarantining, finding entertainment is a challenging task. So, I'm posting chapter 2 today and chapter 3 on monday as planned. 
> 
> If you would like to know how I've been envisioning the "original characters", here is the link to a pinterest board that has all reference pictures I've used: https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.pinterest.com/septimiuscorvus/character-look-alikes-for-giving-up/&sa=D&ust=1585410253555000&usg=AFQjCNGiDaCyamOldcOuwGV6k6BPfTcFLw
> 
> There is some heavy depictions of depression, character death, violence, and a suicide attempt in this chapter, so stay safe. 
> 
> Chapter title is after Weyes Blood's 'Mirror Forever' off of her album "Titanic Rising" which is masterful and I listened to on repeat while writing the first third of this story. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope everyone stays safe in this challenging time. 
> 
> Almost Forgot! Italics mean the characters are speaking in Haljitar, the Haltija language.

.oOo.

Beijar had grown to appreciate his new form. He was only about 76 centimeters tall, short compared to his Haltija form which was over twenty feet tall, six hundred centimeters tall. His hair was dark and curly, not too different from his last form, though now it was shorter, curling around his much duller, yet still faintly pointed ears. His skin was the same light brown that it had been before. His face was rounder, his lips plumper, and his eyes bigger; though they were the same brown colour and almond shape he had possessed before. 

The scars on his face he had earned long ago now held no trace on this stranger's face. The scars on his mother’s face, his father’s hands, were similarly gone. 

With this newfound freedom of mobility, his learning had much to gain. He had barely been of age when they were forced into hiding and had not learned everything his race had been able to teach. 

Years passed and Beijar expanded his knowledge. Bihana taught him how to fight in the ancient ways with their hands and their feet. Beimyar taught him different languages and how to talk his way out of unsavoury situations. They could both see the longing for adventure in his eyes and tried as best they could to prepare him for such journeys. He learned how to track the new animals and how to identify what new plants were for healing, what new plants were for eating, and what new plants to stay away from at all costs (unless you needed to poison an enemy, but that went unspoken). Beijar soaked in all of this knowledge and was still thirsty for more. Beimyar often chuckled at the fervor his son possessed for learning, it reminded him of himself when he was just a lad. 

More years passed until Beijar had been a hobbit for twenty-one years. Then the Fell Winter came upon the Shire. 

Winter had hit them early on with harsh winds and freezing rains. Crops that had just started being harvested were quickly ruined by the temperature, turning moldy with the rain. The rain turned to snow and the hobbits were forced to wait out the winter in their smials. Snow piled up and the river froze. Hobbits were starving. 

Then the wolves came. It seemed to Beijar that every time he thought it couldn’t grow more dire, something was thrown into the works and more danger was added. The howls of desperate wolves sounded and over the course of the next two days, hobbits were dragged out of their smials through the windows and feasted on. 

The horns of Buckland sounded and they all knew they were not going to survive. The orcs had come. The freezing of the river provided an ample bridge for the ravenous, twisted beings who were hell bent upon the destruction of the peaceful people of the Shire. The rangers were not there yet and no word of them coming to aid them had been heard. 

They were well and truly fucked. 

Bihana was not going to lay on her back and be taken, so she put on her armour and opened the door, going to brave the cold. Beimyar followed with his throwing knives and flash bombs. They met several members of the Took and Brandybuck families, they weren’t going to be killed like cowards either. It would be a disgrace. They warned Beijar not to come, but he followed anyway with his own weapons. A herd of orcs and their wargs were not but three meters in front of them. He had heard of orcs, but had never seen one before. Beijar shivered at the feeling of darkness being expelled from the dark creatures in front of them, Morgoth’s taint lay heavy upon their desolate bodies. 

The battle had begun. 

Arrows flew and swords clashed. Blood flew freely through the air. Beijar had been struck several times by passing swords, but he had also taken down several orcs and wargs himself. He looked over and saw several hobbits being ripped to shreds. He couldn’t stomach it and looked in the other direction just in time to see his father being crushed by a wargs great maw. He quickly took out the warg and cradled his father’s body as rangers flooded in the area, dispatching the remaining enemies. 

Bihana was doing poorly as well, she had gotten an arrow stuck in her thigh and was barely mobile. Beijar carried his father back to Bag End and quickly ran back out to gather his mother before doing the same. He tended to his mother first as she was bleeding heavily from her wound. He pulled the arrow out and was relieved it wasn’t a morgul arrow, for then all hope for her survival would be lost. He quickly tended to her wounds and left her to rest before he went to assess his father’s wounds. The moment he looked at his father, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. His chest was caved in and he heard bubbling wet sounds every time the older man breathed. The lung was punctured and his father was going to die. 

He wrapped his father’s chest to ease his pain and passing, brewed him pain relief herbal tea and moved his mother into the same room. He had to move another bed in the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave his mother alone while her husband and his father was dying. Bihana had a fever and infection was setting in. Her usually beautiful, dark face turned pale with blood loss and red with fever; her hair and brow drenched in a heavy layer of thick, sweltering sweat. Beijar treated it as best he could, putting slices of mouldy bread and honey upon the inflamed wound. His mother remained unconscious. 

It took four days before his father passed away without a sound. Beijar was vigilantly watching as the wet breathing grew slower until it stopped, blood flowing heavily from his mouth as it had been doing during the four day period. He let out a sob, hand covering his mouth to quiet his cries. He looked over to his mother who was still unconscious. He wanted so badly to hug her for some semblance of comfort. She would be devastated when she woke. He didn’t want to think about that. He hadn’t ever been separated from his parents before, except in necessity, and even then never for long. What was he going to do? Nobody would be out and the ground would be too frozen to bury his father’s body and return it back to the earth where it belonged. He placed his head in his hands, what was he going to do? 

Turns out, the solution for Beijar was setting his father’s body next to the line of accumulating bodies under the party tree. He despised himself for this. He should’ve taken his father’s body to the old forest, but the journey was too long, the weather too unforgiving, and he needed to focus on healing his mother. He was sorry that his father had never gotten the chance to return to his magnificent Haltija form once more before his untimely death. The older man had lived to be 74,994 years old. 

As for Bihana, her recovery was slow going and almost no progress was made by spring. Beijar himself had wounds, but he forgot about them when faced with his parents' mortality. This resulted in infection and heavy scarring. He dealt with the infection with a singular mind, he was not going to die before his mother. He treated it and quickly forgot about it. 

Spring started late and Beijar left the smial to help dig graves with the last able bodied hobbits left from the winter. It was a depressing matter, digging a grave, placing the body in, covering the body with dirt, and then placing a marker with the hobbits name. He lost count after 45 bodies. The bodies of many children were there too, having not survived the starvation set upon them. Beijar performed the task with no emotion. He had shut down when he realized Beimyar would not survive. 

When he got home later that evening, covered in dirt, he discovered his mother had woken up. She kept calling for her husband to come and help her stand up and Beijar knew she could tell something was wrong. He tended to his mother without saying a word, further worrying the sick Haltija. 

“ _ Tell me what is going on right now _ ,” she demanded. “ _ Where is your father? Where is Beimyar? _ ” Beijar looked down at his bare and dirty feet. 

“ _ Father didn’t make it. He is dead. We were out there digging the graves and burying the deceased. Too many perished. _ ” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Bihana fell silent with a click of her jaw. She stared at her son, who looked so much like his father. She smacked him across the face, lost in her anger and disbelief. 

“ _ You’re lying, he can’t die, we’re immortal _ .”

“ _ Mãe, you know that we can be killed, just because we can’t die naturally doesn’t mean life can’t be taken from us. _ ” He held his hand up to his now swollen cheek. “ _ Father is gone. _ ”

“ _ Get out _ .” Beijar looked at her, confused. “ _ Get Out! _ ” She shrieked. Beijar scurried out of the room, fear splashed across his face. 

The days passed and Beijar tried to tend to his mother who grew more and more resentful towards her son, mad in her grief. 

“ _ You should have died. _ ” She had said a few days after she woke. 

“ _ You don’t mean that, Mãe. You can’t mean that, _ ” Beijar whispered his plea, afraid of her response. 

“ _ Your father should have lived and you should have died, _ ” Bihana said, almost to herself. 

“ _ Please don’t say that. Please, you can’t say that. _ ” He was close to tears. 

“ _ Maybe you aren’t my son at all, maybe you are one of Morgoth’s twisted creatures, bent on tormenting me to the end of my days! _ ”

“ _ I’m not of Morgoth, Mãe, I swear! I live for Yavannah! I am Yavannah’s creation! _ ”

“ _ Leave. _ ”

“ _ I can’t leave, you are still sick. _ ”

“ _ I said LEAVE! _ ” And so it was, Bihana’s barbed words—gained through grief—tore Beijar down more and more each day. 

Bihana died the next month at 75,000 years old with hatred in her mind and yearning in her heart. 

Beijar carried her light body to the graveyard and set out digging the rest of the graves with the others. He lit two candles that night and went to sleep, once more regretful of the fact she hadn’t found death in her Haltija form. The next month was quiet. A blanket of mourning silence fell over the Shire. Soon after that hobbits were up and about, trying to find normalcy in the everyday routines they had. Beijar threw himself in the book collecting and scholarly work for other far off kingdoms that his father had established in the time he lived as a hobbit (he certainly did not want to turn to his mother’s job which dealt with the business of thieving though it had endeared her to the Old Thain). Yet, through his quest for normalcy after tragedy Hobbits would come to his door demanding he leave and never come back. He wasn’t one of them after all, so why should he stay? He should give the smial his father built to a more worthy, larger family. The Thain of the Shire insisted he was fine to carry on as he was and for the others to leave him alone. He was grateful to the old man. 

Years passed in isolation and hobbits began calling him “Mad Baggins” because he refused to socialize with the other hobbits. He stayed mostly in his smial and never left unless necessary. The people around him had continued to ostracize him for his accent, the odd color of his skin, and his lack of familial relations. When he did venture outside children would throw things at him and shriek the nickname appointed to him by the other Hobbits. Prices at the market were racked up for him in particular and chortling and disparaging comments followed him in the form of thinly veiled gossip. The only people that never made it a point to isolate him or go out of the way to cause his misery were the Gamgees. Hamfast Gamgee carried on the same everyday, tending to the garden and bringing over some of his wife’s cooking as Beijar had stopped cooking for himself and eating for the most part. 

When he had been a hobbit for 28 years, nothing happened. Hamfast came over to wish him a happy birthday, but everyone else had either forgotten about him or just didn't care. No party was held and nobody came (despite the fact that parties were always held for any occasion—Hobbits were a particularly rowdy bunch when surrounded by their own and enjoyed a good party). He felt isolated, abandoned, forsaken. He tried to reassure himself, saying aloud to the empty house that he was glad he didn’t have to attend a party when the only thing he felt like doing was dying. He didn’t feel he deserved the life he had, it felt like he had cheated to get to this point. It didn’t staunch the steady flow of tears as he broke down in an empty hallway near the back of the rather large abode. 

Not more than two weeks later, he slipped into a worrying mindset. He had to stop working with knives and hide away the weapons so he wasn’t tempted to kill himself. He took only shallow baths so he wouldn’t feel inclined to slip under the water and never come back up. He didn’t go exploring and looking for new herbs and plants in case he came across a deadly one and ingested it. He was on the edge of a steep drop and there was no one there to bring him away from it. 

One day, he had enough. Beijar realized he didn’t have to keep going on, he  _ couldn’t  _ keep going on in a similar fashion. He had been living as a ghost for far too long. It had been twelve years since his parents passed away and he felt as though he passed with them. He should have died with them. His mother was right all those years ago. They should be alive and he should be dead. Better yet, they should’ve just stayed as a tree—where the rest of their race belonged. 

He grabbed one of the daggers he had hidden away and started to fill the bath. He felt calm as he put things away, intending to never touch them again. He wrote a letter, intending Hamfast to read it. Hamfast and his new family were to inhabit Bag End after he was gone. The gardener and his wife had done so much for him that he couldn’t think of any hobbit more deserving of the place. He cleaned up, dusting the place and putting his books away from the piles they had been left in for far too long. 

He went to the bathroom and sat down in the warm water, clothes still on. After he committed the act, he lay back against the porcelain tub and drifted off into the darkness that continued to creep into his vision. 

.oOo.

Hamfast had been worried for Bilbo Baggins for some time now. The poor hobbit was looking more and more haggard and drained as each day went by. He and his wife tried to help him as much as they could, but they had just married and were getting ready for their first child. 

When he went to Bag End the next day to grab his paycheque, he heard naught but silence. He grew worried as Bilbo usually came to the door in a timely fashion when he knocked. He tried the knob and it was unlocked. He opened the door and caught the scent of blood. 

“Mr. Bilbo? Mr. Bilbo are you here?” He didn’t hear anything and immediately feared for the worst, could somebody have come in during the night and killed the young hobbit? It was not an unwarranted fear as he had overheard such ponderings at the Green Dragon over a pint. He immediately flew the direction he smelled the blood coming from and arrived at the bathroom, the door was open and the sight that greeted him was horrific. 

Bilbo was laying in red water, wounds on his wrist and neck the cause for the colour. A dagger lay on the floor next to his prone figure. Hamfast ran over to the boy and checked for a pulse. It was there but weak. He picked him up and laid him on the tile floor. He grabbed a nearby towel and placed it to the boy’s neck and two others to his wrist. He didn’t know what to do next, he had never had to do this before. 

He took a deep breath in an attempt to push the panic away. It would do no good in this situation. He grabbed more towels and pressed them to the now spotting towels. He placed Bilbo’s arms above his heart, remembering what the doctor had done when his father had cut himself badly with a scythe while harvesting one year. He needed to grab something, but he was afraid to leave the bleeding boy alone. No doctor of the Shire would offer to help treat the lad, stating his oddness as a reason he should be left to his own devices. He quickly looked around, trying to discern whether or not he had everything he needed in the bathroom. 

He pulled the plug from the red water and let it drain before filling it back up. He needed Bilbo’s shirt off so he could clean the wounds. He ran and grabbed a knife from the kitchen, refusing to touch the dagger, before running back and cutting the shirt off of the soaked hobbit. He gasped when he saw some of the scars. Thick jagged lines cut diagonally across the boy’s torso. They must have been from the Fell Winter. He leaned down and placed his head on Bilbo’s clammy chest before rising back up and doubling his efforts. He finished removing the boy’s shirt before he removed the rest of the boy’s clothes (‘And he was still just a boy! He had not even reached his majority yet!’ Hamfast lamented.). He picked Bilbo up and placed him in the bath, trying to warm him up while cleaning the wounds. They were bleeding sluggishly now and Hamfast thanked Eru when he found that they weren’t as deep as he first thought. 

He gently cleaned the wounds before lifting the unconscious hobbit from the tub and wrapping him in a big fluffy towel and a quilt. He carried the hobbit into his bedroom and laid him down gently on the bed, taking great care not to jostle him too badly. The gardener hobbit then went into the kitchen and found all of Bilbo’s healing supplies (which were quite extensive). He grabbed a needle, thread, disinfectant paste and three rolls of bandages and ran to Bilbo. Hamfast made quick work of stitching the slashes, applying the paste to the wounds then dressed them with bandages. 

Hamfast leaned back in his chair. He didn’t know what else he could do for Bilbo besides be there for him, but he had been there for him—at least he had thought he had been—and where did that lead him? With a half dead hobbit. He breathed in shakily, tears sprouting up in his eyes. 

“Bilbo, my dear, dear friend. What ails you so? What led you to this? If only I could help you. It’s what you deserve.”

He loved Bilbo like a brother, and though they were of different classes, Bilbo had treated him no differently, in fact  _ bette _ _r_ , than he would anyone else. That wasn’t a usual occurrence amongst the other high class Hobbits. He couldn’t imagine a world in which Bilbo Baggins wasn’t there. He would be devastated. 

He spent the rest of the morning at Bilbo’s bedside. He couldn’t bring himself to leave. What if Bilbo woke up and was all alone? What if Bilbo tried to take his life again? Because that was undoubtedly what happened. Hamfast knew Bilbo had been struggling with depression for years, but he didn’t understand the full expanse of the issue, and didn't understand how it could lead to this. He would not leave Bilbo alone. 

.oOo.

Beijar had woken up slowly, sated in the thought that he was in Yavannah’s garden. When he opened his eyes though, it was to the ceilings of Bag End above him. Was he a specter? Was he doomed to wander the earth for his dishonourable death? Or was he still alive? He sighed and tried to move his arms. They were heavy and hard to move, especially with the thick bandages wrapped around his wrist. He tried to sit up. Everything felt heavy and he had a dull ache in his neck, he belatedly realized there were more bandages there too. He looked around, desperate for an answer and his eyes fell upon a distracted Hamfast. 

“Bilbo, thank Eru you’re awake. I was hoping you would wake up again.” The man’s eyes started watering. “I don’t know what would happen if I lost my best friend.” And Beijar felt something warm under his sternum. It had been a long time since he felt this warmth. It almost made up for the fact that he was still here. Alive. 

“Hama-fast…” His voice was scratchy, no doubt due to the injury on his neck. Everything felt dull, he saw no colours in his surroundings and he longed for happiness. 

“What can I get you? Whatever you need, I am here for you.”

“I don’t want to be here… please…” He started to sob. Everything hurt. Hamfast grabbed one of his hands and ran his thumb along the back in a calming manner. He couldn’t stop the thick tears from pouring out of his eyes though. He was in a constant state of existential misery. “Please… let it stop… Hama-fast… please?” At this point, Hamfast had started crying as well. When would everything be okay? Would he ever gain his Haltija form back? Would anything ever be okay? 

.oOo.

Hamfast came around everyday to wrap his wounds and tend to him. Beijar didn’t try to get up from bed the entire time he was recovering. When asked why, he simply stated that his soul was too weak to move. And so time passed for Beijar who had rarely eaten, rarely moved, rarely stepped out of his bed unless it was to use the bathroom. 

Another year and he was okay to walk around. Hamfast was busy with his first child and fast coming second child, so had come around less and less. Beijar only took two of the seven Hobbit meals he had once grown accustomed to. His skin grew thinner and his bones protruded. His skin turned more pale with the lack of sunlight from being indoors for a long time. He had taken to wearing a handkerchief around the scar on his neck and bandages wrapped around the scars on his wrist. He had taken all of the weapons he and his parents had accumulated and put them away in a locked trunk so as not to tempt himself again. He lived as a wraith, a shadow. He felt apathetic to the things around him. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. 

Another year and he had gotten better. He wasn’t all skin and bones and had taken to smoking his pipe outside on the bench. He only did it for Hamfast though, his best and only friend had voiced his concerns to Beijar, who had wanted his friend to not worry about somebody as worthless as him. 


	3. A Pin-Light Bent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves arrive in the Shire and meet what they hope is their burglar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy ahoy, 
> 
> My dear fellows, another chapter has arrived and now things are rolling. The dwarves are here!! I felt like some scenes I've written in this chapter have been overdone in other fics, and so I did my best to try and avoid rewriting the movie, though I did use some of the dialogue, but this is canon divergence and events have already changed, so this story, while following the movies, is going to be very different. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all like this chapter, and I hope you guys are social distancing. I will be posting again on saturday. 
> 
> Title Chapter is after Joanna Newsom's 'A Pin-Light Bent" in her album "Divers" (I highly suggest you listen to her other stuff too, she is a verified genius and by far my favourite musical artist of all time. )

.oOo.

It was on a fine spring morning during his thirty-third year of being a Hobbit and Beijar was on his bench smoking his pipe. He was feeling okay this morning, almost good. He had just closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of fine pipeweed and spring air when a tall older man stepped up to him. Beijar finished his inhale and let out a ring of smoke. 

“Good morning,” he told the old man who had waited patiently in front of him. 

The man had a large grey, pointed hat resting upon his dirty face. Beijar could not make out his true skin tone underneath the grime. Dirty, long fingers wrapped around a long wooden staff. Beijar could feel some innate magic resting within the veins of wood. Long dirty grey robes dressed the man and came down so long that Beijar knew not if he was wearing shoes. Beijar had not encountered anyone outside of the Haltija race nor the Hobbit race, and so was hard pressed to figure out what exactly this old, pale, dirty man was. A stern frown with pursed, thin lips rested upon his face underneath a long grey beard and a long nose that rested next to blue eyes. His brow was furrowed and his eyebrows were bushy. This man, in essence, could be described as one word and that word would be “Grey”.

“What do you mean?” the man spoke, his voice rumbling from his chest. He stood a good few feet taller than Beijar himself and painted a very intimidating figure. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning, or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?” Beijar felt anxious at this response, unable to reason why this foreigner would want anything to do with him, unless he was an enemy. Upon further investigation of said old man and his response, Beijar felt a mild spark of annoyance where he would usually just feel cold. He did not like this. 

“All of them, I suppose. At once if you are amenable.” His voice was flat, preparing for the inevitable scorn of his person. The old man gave him a disapproving look. Who was this old man? He had no right giving him a look a father would give his child. 

“I apologize, but can I help you?” he asked instead when no response was delivered after a minute of silence.

“That remains to be seen. I am looking for somebody to share an adventure with. The Thain suggested you.” 

“An adventure? Now I don't imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things.” He knocked his pipe against the bench, dislodging the ashes before standing up. He had never before ventured anywhere outside of the area, not even in the first age back when he was in his Haltija form. “I bid you good morning, sir.” He turned to leave. 

“To think that I should be good-morning-ed by someone your Thain had highly regarded, as if I was nothing more than a lowly button seller.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” The Thain had highly regarded him? Him? People mostly wanted him gone and out of sight for the most part. This could just be a ploy to get him away from the Shire so that they could take Bag End.

“I know that you are different, but why or how, I do not know. I feel as though the Valar are pushing me in your direction. They want you to join on this quest.” Now that was a sensitive topic he did not want to touch if he could help it. He didn’t want to call any attention to himself in case he accidentally caused the massacre of the rest of his people, though they had long forgotten about being Haltija in the first place.

“I again apologize, sir, but I do not know your name.” 

“Well, you probably know my name, although you don't remember I belong to it. I'm Gandalf and Gandalf means me!” The old man gave a thin smile. Beijar did not return it. He vaguely remembered mentions of Gandalf. The old man had been coming around to the Shire for a long time, but not any time that he had been a resident there. He was a wizard!

“Ah yes, Gandalf the wandering wizard. I have been told that you made very excellent fireworks. I remember hearing of the festivals they were at.” The words he spoke were true. The stories of the bright sparks in the sky were something the fauntlings loved to hear from their parents. 

“Well, I'm pleased to find you know some word about me, even if it's only my fireworks. Well then, that's decided. It will be very good for you and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.” Anger sparked in his chest. He didn’t like the feeling so he pushed it down. ‘ _ I shall inform the others,’ _ is what the old man said. Others. Other people, most likely from outside the Shire were going to be in his house. He did not like this. The only people to be in Bag End since his mãe died was Hamfast, his wife, and his oldest son who was now almost 5. What was he going to do? Should he cook? He needed to clean up. 

Beijar walked into the smial in a daze, not remembering to say goodbye to the old wizard behind him. He closed the door and started walking away, missing the sound of scratching coming from the other side. 

He started with the cleaning. He dusted and tidied and cleaned and put away. He felt a small niggling of panic in the back of his head at the thought of visitors. After he cleaned, he looked at his rather barren pantry and sighed. He needed to ask Hamfast to go to the market, but Hamfast was busy and he didn’t want to disturb him. Why not just go by himself? He was a big Haltijan, he could do it. 

And so it was that he set out to the market. He ignored the disparaging comments from the other patrons of the market and residents of the Shire. It was all the same anyway. Mad Baggins, unstable, not quite right, queer, it was as if the entire Shire looked up the synonyms for the word “odd” and decided to call him everything that came up. He was used to it though so he went about his business and got a lot of food for a pretty penny as, once more, all the shop's prices were raised just for him. He usually had Hamfast grab stuff for him on his weekly shopping trips as he hated being outside Bag End, but he couldn’t help it on this occasion. 

He took the food back home and started cooking. Pies and roasts and rolls and baked goods came out of his kitchen in the next few hours. He set everything up in the large dining room that he hadn’t touched until he had cleaned earlier. He had just sat down after setting everything out, when he heard the first knock. 

.oOo.

Dwalin had always hated the Shire. It wasn’t too terribly far from Ered Luin, but still far enough that travel between the two wasn’t too terribly common. This being the case, Dwalin had never actually set foot in the Shire until two days previously. Since then, he had been looked upon with fear and suspicion. Excepting the children of course. The tiny things would always run around and shout greetings at him while he walked along the narrow dirt paths the village seemed to favour. No, it wasn’t the little ones he disliked, it was the adults that were the problem. When he walked by, they would whisper to each other or even be so bold as to insult him loudly enough for him to hear. 

Hobbits were a soft sort of people, squishy and ugly and short. Their ears were too pointy, reminding him of elves. Their skin was darker than his own, their hair was curly, and their beards were not on their faces, but on their rather large and bare feet. The people were made even uglier by their sneers and grimaces. The children were exempt from this harsh assessment as Dwalin always had a soft spot for children of any race (though he had never met an elfling—nor did he want to). He certainly hoped that the burglar the wizard secured wasn’t like the other grown Hobbits at all. If that were the case, they would need to find another burglar as well as another place to stay for the night.

The sun was just starting to set when he reached a Hobbit house with a green door carrying a glowing mark. It was just as the wizard promised then. He stepped up to the round door and knocked twice, a little anxious to see the burglar so he would know who he was dealing with. The door opened and in front of him stood a very small Hobbit. He was certainly thinner and less cheery looking than the other Hobbits he had encountered so far. He also had a white type of fabric wrapped around his neck and wrists that snuck out from underneath his raised collar and long sleeves. This was an odd creature compared to the others Dwalin had previously encountered. 

“Dwalin, son of Fundin at your service. Is there a Mr. Baggins here?” He bowed, as was polite. He looked again at the halfling who was staring blankly at him, surely he was too young to be asked on this quest. Gandalf’s burglar must be the lad’s father. 

“Oh, um, Bil-bo Bag-gins at yours.’’ The short man had an odd accent he hadn’t heard anywhere else, not in the Shire, nor anywhere else in Eriador. Anyhow, the bow was returned and he was invited in. Thoughts of his age quickly left Dwalin’s mind—the lad must be older than he looked. The Hobbit closed the door behind him as he looked around a rather large, and empty, entry room. 

“What should I do with my weapons?”

“Oh, you can set them there in that barrel.” the barrel was rather small and he didn’t think to imagine what Fili would do with all his weapons; did this Hobbit know more people were coming? He sure hoped so. “The wash-room is down the hall, first door to your left if you feel like washing up before dinner.” The small creature drifted apathetically through another door, leaving Dwalin alone. 

Dwalin didn’t know what to think as he made his way to the washroom. He had always thought that one could gleam the most information about someone from the place they resided. The bathroom was tidy, but clearly lived in. Droplets of water sat on the table next to the wash basin. A nice smelling bar of soap sat next to the porcelain bowl, a hand embroidered towel sat on a hook next to a spotless mirror. 

He looked rough. His face was dirty from the road and his expression was mean. He didn’t really understand why he naturally looked mean, though Thorin had often stated that it suited him just fine. He was grateful for his hard face at times especially when intimidating someone, but other times he wished he didn’t scare everything off. 

He sighed and washed his hands and face, a little jealous that he hadn’t had the home in order to have his own bathroom like this. This was why he was on this quest though, not just for moral and fighting support for Thorin, but to get his home back. He was so tired of travelling, not belonging. 

He wiped his hands off on the thick, soft fabric of the towel and went back into the dining room, finding the odd looking hobbit staring off into space. He had not interacted with the lad in order to ascertain anything from his personality to make any judgements, something he would remedy as the night went on. He had only just sat down at the table when a knock came from the door, effectively spooking the halfling into jumping and running towards the door. He heard somebody introducing themselves and when he looked, he saw his brother. 

He hadn’t seen Balin in quite a little bit, having last talked to him four months ago in the blue mountains before they had to go separate ways for the different jobs they had taken. It felt nice to greet and joke with his brother like they did when they were younger. This wasn’t some seedy tavern so he could drop his hard mask and grin widely at his brother as they laughed. He doubted he would be bested by a weak halfling, and so left his guard down a little bit, though not completely. 

The night grew longer and the entire party had shown up, except for Thorin, but Dwalin already knew this would be happening and so didn’t worry too much. The halfling looked close to death, his dark skin was more pale than it had started out at the beginning of the night, and he looked distraught at the many dwarrow in his house, though he had yet to make a move in making them feel unwelcome, which made Dwalin feel something weird in his chest. In truth, he was a little concerned for the small creature who hadn’t treated him with the ire common for others towards his people. He quickly lost that train of thought as everyone started to eat and trade stories and sing. Then Thorin arrived with a solemn knock at the door, which almost got a grin out of him. His One sure was something. 

.oOo.

Beijar felt ill. He was not used to such excitement and he felt overwhelmed and nauseated. The dwarves were bottomless pits and he was glad he thought to go to the market that morning or else he wouldn’t have had enough food for them all. He saw the wizard Gandalf sitting to the side with a small wine glass in hand, smiling benevolently at the company of dwarves; much like a proud father to his children. Beijar desperately wanted his father to be here. Beimyar would know what to do, he always had solutions. Beijar wanted to cry. He hadn’t even met a majority of them, and he didn’t remember any of their names except for Dwalin and Balin. 

The dwarves were an ugly people. They were large and hulking and awkward in their movements. No bit of grace was considered in their creation as they continued to run into each other and then the furniture. Their noses were big and their hair long, straight and oily, often braided in weird patterns. Bits of food stuck in their beards and drops of ale hung around their mustaches. It was nauseating. Their skin was even more pale than the old wizard’s though they too were covered in a darker layer of grime that belied any truth to Beijar’s observations. 

He heard a knock at the door and scrambled to answer it. The grey wizard followed behind him. He opened the door and came face to face with a very majestic, if not brooding dwarf. The dwarf did not acknowledge him, but rather started talking to the wizard about how difficult his trek through the Shire was. Beijar could relate, the Shire was confusing to someone who was not familiar with the lay of the land. 

“... have found it at all if not for that mark on the door.” He didn’t have a mark on the door.

“I beg your pardon sir, but I have not seen any mark on that door as of late.”

“There is a mark; I put it there myself.” Gandalf continued, “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.” The dwarf looked him up and down, a sneer blossoming on his face. 

“So, this is the hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?” Beijar thought back to Fell Winter, named after the amount of people who perished. He didn’t want to fight if he could help it. He must not have answered quickly enough as Thorin Oakenshield continued to talk, not bothering to wait for an answer. 

“Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” All of the dwarves laughed and Beijar’s face grew warm, he felt something akin to stones drop low in his belly. He shuffled backwards, wanting to run into his forest and aborescere. He had no family left though, nobody would take him back, not that the other Haltija remembered their status as a once proud race. 

When he looked back up, everybody was once more laughing and crowing in the dining room, cleaning the dishes that were under all of the food Beijar had slaved over. He wasn’t feeling particularly hungry with all of his rampant emotions and the gross eating habits of the dwarves, so he supposed it was good that no one remembered to save any of the feast for him. He walked over to a more isolated parlour and sat down on the chair his father had made when they first moved into the Shire. 

The chair was a cozy thing, with a dark blue upholstery embroidered by his mother. Rich red vines and golden yellow flowers twined round and round the back of the chair. Age hadn’t dimmed the rich colours of the fabric, but made them softer and more comfortable to sit on. It was his favourite chair and one he sat on when he wanted to be left alone, which wasn’t a problem nowadays. He sat there listening to the revelry occuring in his largest dining room. Once more, his thoughts had strayed as they were wont to do after years of isolation. 

He thought about the wind rustling the leaves of his tree, or blowing through his curls. He loved feeling the wind. He thought about the height he gained in his Haltija form and mirrored in his tree form. He missed being tall and seeing everything when he stood. He bet he could kick all of the dwarves halfway across the world if he was as tall as he once was. He missed his parents steady presence beside him in their long years of being trees. He sighed, looking around. A loud commotion was going on in the next room and Beijar worried someone had gotten hurt. 

When he entered the dining room, no dwarf was hurt, but they were disgruntled about something. 

“They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.” So they were going on a quest. He must have said it aloud as now fourteen pairs of eyes were on him. Gandalf tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped, not having noticed the old wizard moving behind him. 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light.” 

  
  


Beijar grabbed a lit candle from the mantle above the fireplace and walked over to the now clear dining table. A map was spread out upon it, set in front of Thorin Oakenshield and Gandalf. The older grey wizard gestured at the map. 

“Far to the east, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak. The lonely mountain.” Beijar had never heard of such a mountain, it was probably not even formed yet when he walked the earth in his Haltijan form. He wondered what else had formed while his people were trees. A red headed dwarf scooted closer to them. 

“Aye, Oin has read the portents. It is time.” There were several groans that sounded around him. 

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold: when the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”

The beast. 

It must be one of Morgoth’s creatures.

“The beast?”

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals,” the dwarf with a hat responded, he had a wide grin tucked under an even wider mustache. 

“A dragon.” He felt something inside him snap. He needed to end this fell beast. It was the reason he was created. His body rang with the memories of fighting the great fire drakes Morgoth was so fond of creating. He had found his purpose once more. Balin stepped up, Beijar could see him gearing up to speak. 

“The task to win back the mountain would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best.” This gathered shouts of indignation from the crowd surrounding the table. 

“We may be few in numbers, but we're fighters. All of us, to the last dwarf.” 

“And you forget we have a wizard too! I bet he’s killed many a dragon! Maybe even hundreds!” Beijar looked at the old man in question. He looked vaguely uncomfortable at the claim just made. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say-”

“How many then?”

“How many?”

“How many dragons have you killed? Give us a number?” Gandalf sat back, resolutely not answering the question posed to him. He took a hit of his pipe and Beijar kind of wished he had his pipe with him. 

Beijar couldn’t help but think of the choices now presented to him. One. He could stay at home and let the dwarves go on their merry way to death. Two. He could go with them, kill a dragon, and possibly die. 

One path would lead him to discontentment and depression until he eventually died at some point or he took his own life. None of his people had ever died of natural causes such as age so he didn’t know if he could even die that way, he would have to try and kill himself again. The other path would give him purpose, but he would be travelling with hostile companions and would most likely not live through the venture. He needed time to decide; though he knew his heart had already decided, his brain still hadn’t. 

He came back to the dwarves cheering, but Beijar didn’t know why. He snuck away to go through his belongings and grab what he would need to travel. It wasn’t a difficult task as he had hidden away all his traveling things in one closet before he could be tempted to leave, but that was before his parent’s death. He grabbed the pre-prepared pack, and grabbed his father’s set of throwing daggers. He set the pack in his bedroom before returning to the conversation.

“...The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done,” Gandalf finished.

“That’s why we need a burglar.” This was spoken by a younger member of the company who had orange hair and twin braids framing his face. Beijar sighed, Gandalf was setting him up to agree to come by giving him an important role. He would play along for now. 

“Hm, A good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.” The dwarf he stood next to jumped at his sudden presence. He was the only one to talk to the silent room and his haljitar accent stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“And are you?” A red haired dwarf asked.

“Am I what?” He needed a clear answer before he could agree to anything. 

“He says he’s an expert!” This came from the older dwarf with the metal tube held up to his ear. He refuted his position as a burglar, eager to get more details on his position in the quest. An argument broke out. 

The air grew heavier and Beijar knew he would not like what was to happen next.

“Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!” Beijar hated his Hobbit name. The aura snapped and peace flooded the air. Beijar took a shaky breath. His scars itched but he didn’t want to call attention to them by scratching them. 

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet.” He wasn’t a Hobbit. “In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of Hobbit is all but unknown to him,” A dragon would also not know the scent of a Haltija; “which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this.”

Beijar didn’t know what Gandalf’s base of reference was, as he personally had never met the man before. How would the old wizard know if Beijar was the best for this particular job? Was it just on the word of a vindictive old Hobbit that Gandalf put so much faith in him? Oh don’t get him wrong, he was going to go on the quest, but it was the principal of it. 

“Very well. We will do it your way.” Beijar sighed. 

“Give him the contract.” Balin pulled out the contract from a pocket. Beijar took the contract from the white haired dwarf and went to his study to read through the clauses. He and his father learned how to read through legal documents together. He sniffed as he remembered long afternoons studying with his father. 

Everything seemed acceptable in the contract. He wasn’t about to refute the point that they wouldn’t help him. He felt saddened by this, but he would get over it. He has been through worse. He didn’t like how descriptive the part about dying was, but it was either die there or die here. He didn’t know what name to sign with. He shrugged and just signed as Bilbo Baggins. He felt like he was betraying his heritage and his parents. 

.oOo.


	4. Yggdrasil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves have arrived, and Bilbo has decided to leave with them, but does he have anyone to say goodbye to? Who is going to get Bag-End? The dwarves think him odd, how will they go about behaving around the strange Hobbit, the newest member of their company?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's saturday lads, and what a saturday it is. 
> 
> I've been watching a lot of movies and doing a lot of art lately, but I haven't been writing for some reason, probably bc I suck, haha. Anyway, here is Chapter 4 as promised. The chapters start growing longer and longer as the story develops, so even if the updates are sort of far apart I hope the amount of content appeases y'all. 
> 
> I named this chapter after the song "Yggdrasil" by this band called Danheim, and I chose it particularly because it sounds so much like the misty mountain song in the movie, it isn't even funny. At one point while writing, I considered making a spotify playlist of all the songs I had chosen to fit with the feelings and themes being presented in this story, but I disgarded that idea because some songs would have depended on timing to make sense, and not everyone reads at the same speed, so it wouldn't have worked. However, if you are interested in hearing all the songs, I will gladly share it with you through Instagram DM's. My account is @yo.its.alright if you wanna chat. 
> 
> Hope you like the chapter, stay safe out there.

.oOo.

Balin had been sitting quietly in the parlour just off the dining room. The lads had cleared up the mess from dinner and the older dwarrow were catching up and smoking as Thorin finished a bowl of stew he had saved. He had handed the Hobbit the contract not but ten minutes ago when the tiny thing came back into the parlour. His steps were silent and he doubted anyone would have seen the lad walking in. 

“Are you sure about this laddie, are there any clauses you have questions about? Any concerns?” 

“Not at all Master Ball-en, I am content with the wording and conditions the contract states, as is seconded by my signature.” Balin looked taken back. That was the longest sentence the halfling had spoken since they had arrived, additionally marking it as the first sentence addressed outright to one of his company since all of them had spilled through his front door hours prior. 

At the sound of the foreign accent, Balin examined the halfling closer. He looked tired, bags hung under his dim hazel eyes. White fabric was wrapped around his neck and wrists. He was a waifish thing, not plump enough to even think of comparing to the other, more portly inhabitants that resided in his village. His skin was lighter too. Was he even a Hobbit at all? The other Hobbits had darker skin from lives spent in the sunny, pleasant weather of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins' skin was a golden brown. His hair was dark and long enough to be tied up into a rough bun behind his head. He looked more haggard and pointy when compared to his neighbors, his cheekbones more pronounced and sharp than the soft squishy faces of the others. The only thing held in common was their stature. All in all, the halfling in front of him was a mystery and Balin didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. 

How could they trust this Hobbit who was so different when compared to his people? 

“Very well, have you gone over the summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, and so forth?”

“I have, and decided it to be fair. Would you like the money now or when we set off?”

“Now will be acceptable.”

“Alright then, I have business to tend to before the night is over. Wills and next of kin, that sort.” Balin nodded, glad Master Baggins was thinking ahead about things like that. It was not good to get hopes up about seeing the journey through in such dangerous circumstances. 

The Hobbit went into the next room before returning with a hefty coin bag. He handed it over to Balin. 

“I have not counted it, but I can assure you it is at least enough. You can keep the extra coins. I have no qualms about my ensured survival. I won’t need it if that is the case.” He left before Balin could respond to the bleak response given to him. He watched the Hobbit as he grabbed something from the next room and snuck out the front door without too many of their party noticing. 

Dwalin looked over at him, before looking over at the door. 

“Did he sign the contract?” Thorin asked from his seat. The stew bowl was empty and Fili rushed to clean it, something Balin smiled at. 

“Aye. Paid up front too. He just left to get some affairs in order.” Thorin nodded, Dwalin grunted. Thorin stood and moved to sit next to his One. Balin smiled at that too. He loved his family so much. He prayed to Mahal that nothing bad happened to them all during this quest. He would be heartbroken if they weren’t to survive. 

“It’s good that the halfling is thinking ahead. I cannot promise he will be alive at the end of the quest. It’s better that he say goodbye now instead of cultivating the false hopes of his kith and kin.”

“Precisely my thinking.” Thorin looked at the lit fireplace. Balin was reminded of how young his king really was. The black haired dwarf pulled out his grandfather’s key from the string hanging around his neck. 

“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

“We are with you, laddie. We will see it done.” Thorin leaned his head on Dwalin’s shoulder. Dwalin laid his head atop Thorin’s, content to sit silently. Balin smiled fondly at the two, missing his One. 

He had left his husband back home. Balin’s spouse, Kiluk, was a jeweler and a mighty fine one at that, but he had no place on the battlefield; something the two agreed on. Balin trusted Kiluk and Thorin’s siblings, Dis and Frerin, to run things smoothly back in Ered Luin. He didn’t regret his decision of leaving him behind, but oh how he missed his husband. 

.oOo.

Hamfast had just finished putting his little ones to bed when a knock sounded at the door. He quickly checked to make sure the fauntlings remained asleep before walking to the front door. He opened it to see none other than Bilbo Baggins standing at his doorstep. 

“Bilbo! What brings you by?” Bilbo rubbed the back of his neck, one of his more nervous tics that Hamfast had only discovered after spending so much time with the other Hobbit. 

“Hello Hama-fast, may I come in? I am afraid I come for business reasons this evening.” Bilbo looked down at his bare feet. Hamfast sighed at the ridiculous sight. 

“You’re being downright silly. Get in here. You know you are always welcome, regardless of the circumstance.” Bilbo looked up, his eyes big and tired. “When was the last time you slept?” He had the nerve to look sheepish. 

“I slept for a couple of hours…”

“When?”

“...Two days ago…”

“Bilbo, you can’t keep doing this. You are going to collapse from exhaustion one day.” The other Hobbit fidgeted with his hands for a moment before stepping in the smial. 

He led the younger man into the kitchen where he put on a pot of tea. They sat down at the round kitchen table, sitting across from each other. 

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had two scones this morning.” Hamfast sighed again. 

“Can I get you to at least eat a slice of lemon cake? Belle just made it at tea time earlier.”

“You are not going to let me say no are you.”

“Correct. Now, what was that business you wanted to discuss? You seem mighty nervous about it.” 

Bilbo once more looked down at his hands, popping his knuckles and digging his bare toes into the floorboards, popping the joints intermittently. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t been as forthcoming with information as I should have been.”

“I frankly don’t care, as long as it isn’t something that puts either of us in danger. You know you can tell me anything.” Bilbo sighed and looked up, meeting Hamfast’s eyes from under his brow. He looked quite like his oldest son when he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

“I am not a Hobbit.” The words came out hurried, and his accent grew thicker with nerves. Tears came to the young man’s eyes. 

“I know.” It was obvious he wasn’t from the Shire and no Hobbits could be found outside the Shire. He hadn’t pressed and he hadn’t asked, but he knew Bilbo was not a Hobbit, even if he forgot sometimes. He also didn’t seem to age the entirety of their friendship.

“You know?” 

“It’s not that hard to figure out, you don’t really look like a Hobbit. Additionally, you and your parents just showed up one day and built a house, learned the language and integrated yourselves into our society. I didn’t want to point it out though. The other Hobbits are horrible to you, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh…My name is not Bilbo Baggins. Or I guess, it is my name, but not my birth name.”

“May I ask what your birth name is?”   
“Beijar. I don’t have a last name.”

“Did your parents have different names as well?” That gained a nod. More tears fell from Bilbo, now Beijar’s eyes. 

“Pai’s name was Beimyar and Mãe was Bihana.” 

Hamfast stood up and grabbed the kettle from over the fire, it had been steaming for a minute and he only just noticed. He poured the hot water into the tea pot and placed the lid atop it. 

“What are you? …I’m sorry, that was probably really insensitive.” Bilbo sniffed and shook his head, a laugh bubbled up from his throat.

“It is quite alright, dear Hama-fast. I will tell you only if you promise not to speak a word of it to anybody, not even Belle.”

“I understand, I won’t breathe a word of this to any living thing. Not even to the plants as I garden.” That garnered another short laugh from Bilbo; he stopped laughing and grew serious, his shoulders drooping by his sides as he sighed. 

“You probably don’t know what it is, but I am a Haltija. Guardians of old I have heard them call us. This isn’t my real form. I don’t know why I am in the form of a Hobbit. I miss my old form. I was 610 centimetres tall.” Hamfast had never heard of Haltija before, but if what Bilbo was saying was true, then he is really old, or his people had been thriving in secret for ages without anyone knowing about it. They sat in silence, Hamfast preparing two cups of tea and serving a slice of lemon cake to Bilbo. 

His kitchen was lit by several candles, dim enough to signify the late hour, but bright enough for people to see. It was comfortable and his smial was warm, but not overly hot. He sat back in his chair and felt the tension in his shoulders melt away. He looked up from his cup to see Bilbo eating the cake slowly, like a bird pecking at seeds. His friend needed to eat more.

“Why are you just now telling me this? Not that I don’t appreciate you telling me, but why now?” 

“I am leaving.” Hamfast jumped up, nearly knocking over his cup of hot liquid. 

“The hell you are. Where are you going? Are you travelling with anyone? Does this have to do with those dwarves and that wizard who were passing by here earlier?” At Bilbo’s nod, Hamfast grew worried.

“Do you know those dwarves? Do you know the wizard?”

“Not quite-”

“Then why are you going?” 

“Something at the end of the journey will give me purpose. I have lost my path, lost my will. I want to see if I can get my old form back. My parents died in this foreign place in foreign bodies. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

His words brought Hamfast into his thoughts. Bilbo had never truly been happy, never truly comfortable in this world, this village, near these people. He didn’t understand, but he knew that Bilbo couldn’t go on how he had been. He deserved to be happy and find his own purpose. 

“That’s all fine and good, but are you sure travelling with strangers is a good idea?” 

“I have already signed the contract and paid the fee.” Bilbo sighed and took a small bite of the lemon cake in front of him. “I am sure I want to go, but I do not know if I will return.” 

Hamfast’s eyes started to sting and his chest and throat grew tight. The back of his nose burned and he knew he was going to cry. He loved Bilbo like a little brother. He couldn’t stand the thought of Bilbo dying, didn’t want to imagine a world with him gone from existence.

“Are you sure you aren’t going to come back?” Bilbo looked sad too. 

“I’m not certain that this journey will end in my death, but I want to be prepared if that is the case. I want you to have everything. I hold no love for the other Hobbits, you are the only one who has shown me love and compassion, and for that I want to give you everything I own.”

“I can’t take that, Bilbo. What if you decide to ever return, where will you stay?” Tears were dripping down his face in fat globs. Hot, salty drops touched his lips and he wished he had the common sense to pull out his handkerchief to wipe them away, but he couldn’t bring himself to peel his eyes away from the Hobbit/Haltija in front of him. He wished that his heart would catch up to the conclusion his mind had come to already. Bilbo also had tears coming down his face. 

“Then I will have no choice but to stay with you when I come back.” 

They sat in silence after Bilbo’s statement. He had handed Hamfast a letter that stated his intentions and a copy of his will, which mirrored Bilbo’s earlier words. They finished their tea and Bilbo ate half of the slice of cake. 

Before the shorter Hobbit/Haltija took his leave, Hamfast held fast and brought him in for a hug. This was seldom something they shared in as Bilbo was usually touch averse but in this moment, before their lives were indubitably altered, they both relished in the contact. 

“Please come back, if you can. I don’t want to lose you forever, little brother. Even a letter of your status would be enough.” 

.oOo.

Returning back to his smial, he was filled with anxious energy. He did not know why, he had already met the dwarves and signed his life and service to them. There was nothing he could do now and he would have to come to terms with that. The realization didn’t do anything to stop his nerves. He stopped at his front fence gate and took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. His fingertips were itchy and his stomach held many a stone, bundled up and heavy. He walked up to the front door. He took another deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. He was going to die anyway, so what did it matter? He opened the big green door, styled like the other Hobbit homes, and walked in. Was this all a mistake? He shouldn’t have been so hasty in signing the contract, signing his life away. 

The dwarves were all sitting in the parlour, smoking and joking and talking and chatting. Focus. He noticed Gandalf sitting alone in the dining room and decided to avoid the older man. He would sense that Beijar was having second thoughts and set upon him in an instant or try and talk Beijar into a corner so he would have no choice but to join or feel guilty about his feelings. 

He crept past the old man, the balls of his feet resting lightly upon the sturdy wooden floorboards. 

He moved into the vacant kitchen, the dishes were done and sat in a pile next to the now empty sink. The faint smell of food hung in the air from the now gone feast. He sat at the kitchen table and flicked crumbs around the smooth, wooden surface. He was a coward. He sighed and placed his head on the table, not caring if he got crumbs in his unruly curls that were sticking out of the bun he had hastily thrown his hair up in earlier. He heard voices talking in the next room, but didn’t care to translate the words they spoke. He was tired. 

He often felt tired, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw everything he didn’t have. He wished he was a tree again. He didn’t understand how he was turned into a Hobbit in the first place, but he fervently wished he had never gotten the chance. 

.oOo.

He sat there for a long time, lost in his thoughts. He had no business sitting in the same room as the dwarves. They didn’t know him nor did he know them. The discomfort would surely be remedied along the course of the trip, but for the moment he would like to rest alone without the social pressures that often arose when Beijar found himself around others. 

His loneliness had peaked, and he had been preparing himself for the past minute to show his guests to the spare rooms when he heard it. 

A low voice singing of far off lands and a home lost to them. It was a song of grief and want and of barely retained hope, lost slowly over time. It was enchanting, it was possessing, it was mind-changing. He found himself yearning for something he knew he could never have--a life with his people and his family, a life of a warrior granted, but a life of happiness nonetheless. Unable to fully comprehend the dwarves’ predicament and how it compared to his own, he was forced to sit silently as more and more voices joined in harmony to tell a desperate tale of a people seeking refuge from great evil and desolation. He knew the tale well.

Finally the song ended and he was allowed a brief respite from feelings crashing over him. Gathering his wits about him, he sighed and walked out of the kitchen, he needed to direct guests to the bedrooms. 

When he arrived at the sitting room, he immediately found Balin. He felt the most comfortable talking to the white haired dwarf, he seemed easy going and intelligent. 

“Excuse me, Master Balin, I forgot to invite you all to spend the night. There are seven free bedrooms, I trust you can all figure out where everyone is sleeping. I only request the bedroom at the end be left untouched as that is my bedroom.” 

“Thank you, Master Bilbo. I bid you goodnight.” Seeing this as the dismissal it clearly was, Beijar clambered back to the kitchen. His scars itched, his mind ached. 

He sat at the table, a cup of tea and a solitary lit candle in front of him. It was past the middle of the night and all of the dwarves along with Gandalf were in their rooms, presumably asleep. Beijar didn’t require much sleep, and even then he didn’t sleep. He hated it. He liked laying down and dozing, but when he would come back to reality his thoughts were jumbled and he had trouble remembering Westron. He didn’t want to be caught dozing by the dwarves and then get stuck speaking haljitar, revealing his secret. 

He stood up, dumping his cold tea into the sink and taking the candle with him into the bathroom where he proceeded to start a bath. He hadn’t traveled extensively before, and figured he should get clean before they left. He grabbed one of the books he had been reading and stripped. He placed the candle on a nearby table and lit a second candle before sinking in the hot water. 

.oOo.

When he got out of the bath, he dressed and went into a small sitting room and grabbed his pipe, relishing the west farthing longbottom he had stashed away. He grabbed all the pipe weed he had and packed it away, not believing he almost forgot something as vital as his pipe weed. He went around the house, packing small things he would have forgotten: his handkerchief, his mãe’s locket from pre-first age and whittled from bone, his pai’s favourite whittling knife, and finally, his charm made from a bone that he had gotten after a battle pre-first age. 

He sighed once more and sat down in his favourite chair. 

He felt saddened by his departure from Bag End. He had spent the last thirty three years familiarizing himself with the way of Hobbits, and now he was forsaking all of it to get a feeling of belonging. He wanted the blood to flow through his veins with the force it once did. He briefly wondered if they were going to be travelling through the forest of Haltija. He wondered what would happen if they did. 

.oOo.

In the morning, they all got their stuff together and left. They trekked through the Shire on their way to Bree to get the ponies they had bought earlier. Beijar had never seen a pony before, but he had read about them. They arrived in the dirty town of men two days later, having left Bag End early, and arriving mid-afternoon. The dwarf with the hat, Bofur, led them to the stables where he handed pony reins to every member with the exception of Gandalf, who had whistled and a great beast came running to him. 

When it was time for him to get a pony, Beijar walked up tentatively, trying not to outwardly show how uncomfortable he was with the taller animal. How was he supposed to get up on this thing? He took the offered reins and walked over with the others, walking slowly so the animal could catch up with him. He heard a couple of the dwarves snicker at this. 

“First time?” the blonde dwarf, Fili, asked. Beijar must have given him a confused look as they started laughing outright. “I mean,” more laughing, “is this your first time riding a pony?”

“Yes. As I have not seen them before, I have not ridden them.” That got strange looks. 

“How have you never seen a pony? You’ve surely seen them riding through your little village, right?” 

“I have not seen a pony before, I might have a few years ago, but I was preoccupied so I do not remember.”

“The halfling can’t pull his own weight, I hope it won’t be like this for the rest of the journey.” He heard Thorin whisper to Dwalin. Beijar felt terrible. He had nobody he could rely on to show him how to do it. He watched as the others led the ponies outside of town before jumping on. 

He jumped on and managed to scramble on the animal’s back. He was thankful for her patience, and so whispered his gratitude to her in Haljitar 

“ _ Thank you, kind beast. _ ” The animal huffed, and Beijar placed a small hand on the side of her neck. “ _ What is your name, Beast? _ .”

“ _ Myrtle _ .” 

“ _ A wonderful name. I am Beijar. How can you speak Haljitar? _ ”

“ _ My mother taught me the language of beasts, she said it has been passed on for ages. _ ”

“ _ That is wonderful, Myrtle. _ ”

Beijar looked up and around at the other dwarves who paid no mind to him. He was glad they did not catch his conversation. He didn’t want to explain anything to them and possibly get him hunted down. He sighed and placed his forehead against Myrtle’s back before inhaling and setting off; trailing behind the line of riding dwarves. 

.oOo.

They had been travelling for a long time, through all sorts of weather. Beijar was minutely saddened to hear they would not be passing through his forest, but he was too caught up in the miserable conditions to give it more than a thought. Two months passed and Beijar was second guessing his choice to come. The dwarves did not trust him, and Gandalf was too caught up in arguing with Thorin at the front of the line to give him any thought. He spent most days daydreaming and listening to the comments the dwarves threw around. Occasionally he would whisper to Myrtle and would talk with her for hours. He had missed having conversations with someone who understood and spoke Haljitar.

“ _ What are the other beast’s names? _ ”

“ _ Well, there is Lord Shadowfax, Daisy, Azalea, Minty, Bungo, Aria, Bertha, Delilah, Finola, Hazelnut, Chestnut, Brunella, Briar Rose, Daisy, and Eleanor. _ ”

“ _ Do they speak also? _ ”

“ _ Shadowfax, Daisy, and Azalea can speak. _ ”

“ _ Why can the others not? _ ”

“ _ They are from a different place than us, they are nice, but they weren't educated like us. _ ”

“ _ Makes sense. _ ” 

“We stop here for the night,” Thorin called out to the company plus Beijar. He might have signed the contract, but he sure wasn’t included with them. He was not part of the company. They were near the edge of a cliff and Beijar was happy to feel the wind in his hair. 

The night passed and Beijar was once more excluded from the festivities and conversations. He took the small bowl of stew given to him by Bombur as he sat on the edge of the cliff with Myrtle. He pulled a fruit called an Eh-pull (apple) out from his pocket and gave it to his only friend on the journey, he had only just discovered the food in the wildlands where they had encountered an orchard with the odd fruit. He ate the stew slowly, still not feeling hungry, and set the bowl with the others. He returned to Myrtle and brushed out her long curly hair. This was going to be one of his sleepless nights. 

He heard a far off scream and froze. His body was wound tight like a string pulled taut. He knew what creature had caused those screams. Orcs. Morgoth’s tortured creatures. He wasn’t around when they were first created, but he could feel them roaming around Arda through the ground. They were filthy disgusting excuses for creatures. If he was granted the opportunity, he would not hesitate in eradicating them.

“Orcs,” Kili said to his brother, Fili, who responded:

“Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.” Beijar shivered, his body too tense to move any other way. He heard shuffling from behind him. He was facing the valley with his short legs hanging off of the cliff and his back towards the dwarves, so he wasn’t concerned with any noise from that direction. 

“They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood.” That was from Kili, who seemed amused by the prospect, like a tale to tell faunts before bed. He heard Thorin growl.

“You think that’s funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” He was glad Thorin was scolding them for making light out of such a deadly topic. He found nothing funny about being murdered by orcs. 

“We didn’t mean anything by it.” Kili and Fili spoke at the same time as they were wont to do. 

“No, you didn’t. You know nothing of the world.” Beijar could feel Thorin’s eyes on his back. 

“Don’t mind him, Laddie’s,” Balin started. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had gotten there first.” He heard the shuffling of the two youngest dwarves settling in for a story.

“Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog, the

Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the King. Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him: a young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent…wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield.

“Azog the Defiler, learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, no song, that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King.”

“What happened to the white orc, Balin?” 

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago,” Thorin responded, a dark tone over-took his voice. 

Beijar liked the story, but he wished he and his people had been there to do their job protecting Arda against Morgoth’s creatures. If that was what happened, Thorin’s people and grandfather wouldn’t have died and his father would not have gone mad. He wished he was in his Haltija form so he could go traversing the world killing all evil like he was created to do. 

“ _ What did you think of that story, Myrtle? _ ”

“ _ I found it scary, Beijar. I do not like bad things. They scare me. _ ”

“ _ Do not worry, Myrtle. I will protect you against any evil. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the names are spelled wrong or hyphenated halfway through in Bilbo's dialogue, this is intentional as he has a different accent, but I forgot to put it in sometimes, and others I just thought it was stupid, so you can choose to ignore it.


	5. The Ballad of El Goodo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The famous troll scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, or whoever is actually reading this. 
> 
> I'm gonna slow the updates from Saturdays and Mondays to just Mondays, I don't want to post all my stocked chapters before I actually finish the story, it's happened to me before and I don't like feeling like I abandoned a story I have every intention of finishing. 
> 
> Regarding this chapter, I don't really like it. I think it doesn't fit with the rest of the story, but every time I go back and try to fix it, it grows even more out of place, so this is the chapter. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story so far, and leave a comment if you do, it would mean a lot to me to know that people actually enjoy something I spent a lot of time and effort on. 
> 
> Chapter title is after Big Stars song "The Ballad of El Goodo"

.oOo.

Fili had enjoyed travelling. It was freeing to ride with his friends and family across the land. He was excited that he was getting to go on the quest to reclaim Erebor: the place his mother and uncles called home. He joked around with Kili and Bofur. He listened to Ori when he ranted about a spectrum of topics. He worked on his sword skills with Uncle Dwalin. He talked with his Uncle Thorin about the interesting parts of being the heir to the throne; he enjoyed listening to the anecdotes of Uncle Thorin’s younger years, rare as they were. He was having the time of his life on this excursion. 

They had just stopped for the night when his uncle and the wizard got in an argument over whether or not their location was the best for camping. It didn’t concern Fili, so he fooled around with Kili as they performed their task of tying up the ponies for the night. They got into an impromptu game of tag as the sun grew heavier in the sky and the moon was yanked overhead through the surrounding stars. 

Then none other than Bilbo Baggins came through the trees carrying two bowls of stew. 

“Here is your dinner, Fee-lee, Kee-lee.” Fili thought his accent was weird, and Bilbo even weirder. He heard him whispering to his horse a couple times, and had to knock his head when he thought he heard the horse respond. (He later tried to speak to his horse, Chestnut, in private). 

“Thank you, Mister Boggins.” Kili was always making fun of the halfling’s name to try and get a reaction, but he hadn’t garnered more than an understanding smile, which was also weird. 

“Yeah, thanks Mister Bog-ins” He thought it was funny that there was no consequence for making fun of the Hobbit. Besides, the rest of the dwarrow didn’t talk to him—so the shorter man couldn’t tell even if he wanted to. They would never believe him. 

He was about to knock Kili’s bowl out of his hands when he heard Mister Baggins speaking again. 

“Where are the other ponies?” Fili immediately felt his stomach drop to the ground. His uncles were going to kill him. 

“Daisy and Bungo are missing,” Kili pointed out after careful examination. Those were Bifur and Ori’s ponies. 

“We should tell Master Oak-in-Shield?” 

“Uhh, no. Let’s not worry him. As our official burglar, we think you should look into it.” 

Nobody would miss the Hobbit anyway. 

The short man began to look around, presumably for tracks. 

“This tree has been uprooted by something pretty big, yes? Something big and dangerous. Kee-lee you should go and get Master Oak-in-Shield. This is not a one person job. I can try and I can sneak to get to the ponies and back without them noticing.” They crouched down in a rush when they saw the distant light of a campfire that was not their own. 

“He’s got Murta and Hortelã! I think they’re going to eat them, we have to do something.” Fili was too lost in panic and confusion at the sight of huge trolls to think longer than a second about the two foreign words rolling off of Mr. Boggins’ tongue. 

“Yes; you should. Mountain trolls are slow and stupid, and you’re so small.” Fili liked how Kili was thinking. He saw the halfling sigh and stand up, ready to walk over there. 

Fili gazed up at him in alarm. Did he not have any regard for his own life, or was he just stupid?

“If you run into trouble, hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl.” Kili snickered and they both snuck away from the danger and the stupidly suicidal Hobbit. Kili ran all the way back to camp to tell their uncle in case things went south and Fili climbed a tree so he could see what was happening from the safety of the air. 

He saw the Hobbit sneak up to the pen where the ponies were being kept and pat his pony’s head. What was he doing standing there? He wasn’t doing anything useful! He plucked a small pinecone from one of the branches around him and threw it at the bumbling Hobbit. He snickered when it pegged him in the back of the head. The halfling looked straight at him and he felt mildly ashamed. He didn’t know he was going to be caught. 

The trolls were rambling on about food and Fili regretted that he hadn’t eaten the soup he was given, he was starving. Mister Boggins pulled a dagger out from a pocket and got to work sawing the rope from the makeshift pen the trolls had set up for their prey. He had to hide and dodge large hands as the trolls went about their business making a sort of stew. It smelled disgusting and suddenly he was glad he hadn’t eaten, for surely he would have lost his stomach by now. 

He saw the rest of the company creeping through the woods around the troll camp. He clambered down the branches, being careful not to fall from such a treacherous height. He met his uncle and brother at the foot, quickly joining his brother’s side. 

“Kili explained the situation leading up to now.” Oh boy, Thorin did not look pleased. “What did you see the halfling doing when you were in the tree?”

“He was sawing the rope to the pony pen and trying not to get caught… What do we do now?” He felt morbidly embarrassed asking that. He was Thorin’s heir, next in line to rule after his uncle. He should’ve already come up with a plan. His uncle sighed, a hand was sat down on Fili’s shoulder, another on his brother’s.

“We wait and see if the halfling is successful in his endeavor. If he fails, we have no choice but to rescue the ponies ourselves. With or without the halfling.” Fili nodded, the stone that had settled deep in his stomach made a reappearance and dropped down to his feet.

.oOo.

Beijar was just able to free the ponies and tell them to join their companions when he was grabbed. A large hand wrapped around his now smaller body and he closed his eyes in resignation. This was happening and he would not be rescued. He faintly heard the trolls arguing among each other about his origins. He did not deign to answer them. 

Then, something happened. A grand turn of events that Beijar could have never imagined would have happened. Dwarves started spilling from the tree line, weapons in their hands and cries on their tongues. Beijar had been dropped immediately by the confounded trolls and proceeded to go back to the pony pen to grab the dagger he had used, for he would surely need it. 

When he stood back up, dagger back in his hand, it was to a most astounding sight. The dwarves had figured out a system. Five would go on the offense and attack the trolls while the rest regained their energy until they switched, keeping their fighting fresh and their bodies strong. Beijar had only ever fought in battle during the Fell Winter, and he knows very well they had not the time nor the resources to have a maneuver as fancy or well thought out as that (not to mention that the other Hobbits that joined him in the fight were not experienced in fighting, and were in fact mere farmers trying to defend their families in the face of great peril). 

Beijar took the dagger and approached the scene, careful not to get stepped on by dwarf and troll alike. He dodged swinging weapons and gargantuan feet and stopped. What was he doing? He dodged a kick and stumbled out of the scene, feeling dumb for having tried. He watched the battle, wincing at every clank of metal against the thick hide of mountain troll. He should have been out there helping, but he knew he could not, his physical limitations were too great to even think about going against three large trolls. The dwarves were tired, but it looked like they were having a fun time, swinging axes and swords and various other weapons around. 

As time passed, Beijar wondered when the battle would end. No party had made any leeway in terms of stopping the other. 

Then it hit him. He faintly remembers debating with his father about the intricacies of battling a troll after reading a book in which the author had been ambushed by a bloodthirsty band of them, only being saved by the sunlight. 

Sunlight.

He looked wildly around and could see no moon in the sky and the birds had started chirping, signaling the approaching dawn. Towards the east where the sun would rise was a rather large rock jutting out from the earth, providing ample hiding space from the dawn light. There was wild plant life and a rather large boulder sat neatly atop it, as if in a path. He scrambled up and towards the rocks, intent on helping the dwarves that had been risking their lives to help him. 

He had just reached the rock when he heard the booming voice of Gandalf sound. 

“The dawn will take you all!” And with that bold declaration, the large boulder atop the larger rock split in half and light leaked through, spotting the large trolls with its magnificent rays. The trolls screamed as their skin grew harder and turned to stone, their faces frozen forever in an agonized grimace. Beijar shuddered at the sight and sat down heavily onto the tall grass below him. He was swallowed up by the grass, and so was quickly forgotten by the nearby band of dwarves. 

“We shouldn’t have taken the halfling, he is of no use to us. Did you see him out there? He was in the way until he found the good sense to sit on the side and watch us like an infant watches its mother. Helpless he was.” Beijar shuddered again at the harsh tone of none other but Thorin. 

“Aye, the lads told me as much. He couldn’t even cut the rope to the pony’s pen in time without being caught,” Dwalin responded, his voice gruff and unwavering. Beijar felt tears spring up into his eyes. It wasn’t true! He freed the ponies and he managed to avoid capture after the first time, and he even came up with a way to end the fight before Gandalf got there. But they had a point. 

He was useless. He was helpless. He could have died. 

After a few minutes of collecting himself and wiping the tears gathering in his eyes, he stood up. The dwarves had all left the area. He could hear them chattering and joking not too far away. They were looking for the troll horde, their hearts set on finding some sort of treasure. Beijar couldn’t stop the flutter in his chest. He was miserable, but he was glad the others had found something to take their minds off of his failure. He didn’t think he would be able to handle the disappointed looks they would no doubt throw at him if they hadn’t the distraction. 

He was startled from his dark thoughts at the sound of quiet footsteps behind him. He turned quickly and found himself in the presence of Gandalf. A small sword was held out to him. 

“Here, Bilbo lad, this should be about your size.” 

“I can not take this.” He just knows that giving him a knife or sword that he can’t hide from himself would be dangerous. 

“The blade is of Elvish make which means it will glow blue when orcs or goblins are nearby.”

That wasn’t the reason why he didn’t take it, but before he could decline, he found the object shoved into his grasp. Stunned, he grabbed onto the cobweb-covered sheath and clutched it close to his small, weak body. 

“Something’s coming!” Thorin shouted, immediately killing the jovial mood the group was in, instead raising everyone’s guard. 

“Stay together! Hurry now. Arm yourselves,” Gandalf bellowed. Beijar stood stock-still as the sound of the wizard’s booming voice washed over him. The sword in his hands unsheathed before he had time to register his hands moving; and then the sword was out, pointed in front of him in a defensive stance.

It was an object of great beauty. The possible many years of it laying in that cave had not tarnished the gleaming silver surface of the still deadly sharp blade. The elvish lettering decorated along the center in an almost swirl like shape. Another set of runes lay along the breadth of the guard. Beijar felt his breath stutter at the sight. 

He was quickly thrown from his admiration as a loud rustling sounded from the brush and he was pushed away from the gathering circle of dwarves. He was easily shorter than everyone present and so could not see from behind the group the arrival of whatever it was that was threatening them. 

At the loud cry of a distressed voice, Beijar’s body went taut with tension. At Gandalf’s announcement of Radagast the Brown Wizard, Beijar felt like a fool for worrying, berating himself mentally as he tried to sneak away from the group and find the spooked ponies. 

“I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong,” Radagast said, clutching Gandalf’s robes in desperation.

The two wizards walked away from the rest of the group, their voices growing quieter as the subject grew more dire. Beijar walked over and sat behind a nearby rock, his sharp ears easily picking up the conversation. 

“The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows any more, at least nothing good. The air is foul with decay. But worst are the webs.”

“Webs? What do you mean?” 

“Spiders, Gandalf. Giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I am not a Wizard. I followed their trail. They came from Dol Guldur.”

“Dol Guldur? But the old fortress is abandoned.”

“No, Gandalf, it is not.” Here, Radagast took a long pause.

“A dark power dwells there, such as I have never felt before. It is the shadow of an ancient horror.” Once more, a pause and Beijar was anxiously waiting for the conclusion of the conversation. He rubbed his neck and fiddled with his knuckles, longing to pop the stiff joints but knowing it would draw attention to him for doing so.

“One that can summon the spirits of the dead. I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness, a Necromancer has come.” 

Beijar felt sick. When they turned into trees, his people had not yet been able to vanquish Morgoth, and he had quite forgotten about it in his many ages as a tree. As such, his soul focus had been on Morgoth’s creatures, not once considering the banished Valar himself as an enemy for how powerful he had been. But if what Radagast was saying was true, then Beijar would need to find his Haltija form and fast before something tremendous in a bad way occured and destroyed Arda. 

“Try a bit of Old Toby. It’ll help settle your nerves,” Gandalf said breaking the surrounding silence. “Now, a Necromancer. Are you sure?” Beijar heard rustling and a quiet gasp. He himself developed a headache as a rush of pure evil intent crashed into him. 

“That is not from the realm of the living.”

And then they heard a howl.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I forgot to mention this earlier, but the Haltijan language, Haljitar is just portugese with a different name.


	6. Where I Like to Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orcs and Rivendell, a good pair for a Hobbit just trying to get through the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy, 
> 
> How is quarantine going for y'all? For me it is altogether too slow and too fast. It seems that the days are short but the weeks are long. My online classes just started today and a squirrel outside of my window is eating the birdseed layed out and tormenting the poor robins and grackles. 
> 
> I'm actually in class right now as I'm writing this, though on my phone rather than my laptop. 
> 
> In this stressful time, filled too many emotions, I hope you folks are trying to stay positive and inside. 
> 
> The song this chapter is names after is "Where I like to Stand" by Vashti Bunyan. Her entire album titled "Just Another Diamond Day" is really good and chill, and isn't very long so it is easy to listen to the whole thing in one sitting.

.oOo.

A chain reaction of events occurred immediately following the reveal of the wargs and their orcs. Kili released an arrow and a quick argument between wizards led the brown wizard Radagast away from the group on his hare-drawn carriage. The orcs followed the wizard and left the company to run through the barren plain landscape beyond the woods they were previously sequestered in. Large rocks dotted the landscape and provided ample shelter to their party from their hunters who had soon stopped in their chase of the wizard and once more took to hunting the dwarrow. 

At one point, Beijar noticed the absence of the wizard at the crop of rocks they had paused at. They were quickly being overtaken and had taken to fighting their foes. Several members had their weapons in hand and several orcs and wargs had been felled already. Beijar had taken down quite a few himself, much to the surprise of the other members. 

Then, a cry escaped the members as they caught up to the realization that the wizard had left them on their own to battle the hunters on their own. 

“He has abandoned us!” Dwalin cried, anger marring his face. Beijar could do nothing to ease the worries of those around him. 

“Hold your ground!” Thorin commanded as they crowded around the rock Gandalf disappeared near, Beijar secretly hoped the wizard would come back for him and save the company before the quest was rendered null by their deaths. Beijar knew that his survival, however, was not a priority and held no candle to the importance of the quest. 

Beijar saw from the corner of his periphery the old grey wizard popping up from seemingly nowhere in the crop of rocks they were against. With a closer look, Beijar saw the entrance of a cave that would hopefully provide them with shelter. 

“This way, you fools!” the wizard beckoned, waving them closer. 

“Come on, move! Quickly, all of you! Go, go, go!” 

Beijar watched as one by one the dwarves disappeared down the steep slope of the cave. Kili and Thorin were the furthest away, still killing the approaching wargs. 

“Kili! Run!” At the call of his uncle, the younger dwarf dropped his drawn stance and ran, terrified. Beijar watched as a final warg dropped behind the young dwarf. Beijar stepped up to protect him, and was met by a growl from Thorin. 

“Know your place, halfling. You will be eaten by that warg in seconds, and I will be hard pressed to save you rather than my company.”

“Understood.” He took another step forward, sword drawn. 

“You are an idiot, halfling.” Kili rushed past Thorin, the warg not far behind him. Beijar stabbed the warg in the neck, its blood spraying onto his already grimy form, but not before the foul beast caught his leg with one of its claws. He held back a cry as he tumbled down the slope to the cave behind Thorin. 

He crashed down to his knees and pulled himself up using the wall as a brace. Nobody looked in his direction as he breathed into the wound to try and forget about the pain. 

Horns sounded above and Thorin growled as he plucked an arrow from an orc that had fallen in the cave not but a second ago. 

“Elves.”

“I cannot see where the pathway leads. Do we follow it or not?” Bofur asked, his usually jovial face was grim and unsettling.

“Follow it, of course!” 

“I think that would be wise.”

At the declaration they would be moving on, Beijar took a deep breath and then a step forward. The pain was agonizing, but he had weathered worse. It was no different than when he tried to kill himself and slit his wrists and neck. It was no different than the wounds he had received during the battle of Fell Winter. It was no different than his mother’s abuses. And so, he followed along at the back of the group wavering in and out of awareness, letting the motion of the dwarf in front of him anchor him to the moment so he could get back to the present with relative ease. 

When they reached an opening to the narrow pathway they traveled, Beijar shook himself from his haze and felt the warm stickiness of the blood soaking his ankle and foot. 

“The Valley of Imladris. In the Common Tongue, it’s known by another name… Rivendell. Here lies the last Homely House east of the sea.” Gandalf introduced, his arms spread wide, seemingly happy with the current turn of events. 

Beijar, himself, had not been particularly keen on a meeting with the elves, though for reasons much different than the dwarrow. 

Reason 1: The elves might be able to ascertain the fact that he was not in fact a Hobbit, but rather something different and could act as if he was a threat and kill him right away. 

Reason 2: The elves might reveal to the other races he wasn’t a Hobbit and then they will treat him with the scorn and ire they already treated him with, but to a much greater extent. 

Reason 3: The elves might decide to go into panic mode at his presence and demand they wake up the other Haltija and condemn them to a half-life. A life not worth living. 

Reason 4: He might be forced to become the world’s special force in exterminating all “evil”. Beijar couldn’t bring himself to kill anybody but Morgoth’s creatures, and even then he couldn’t get rid of all of them on his own. It was impossible. 

So it was safe to say that Beijar was just as, if not more, nervous as they were.

“ _ Damn it all, Yavannah, _ ” He whispered, his voice carried away by the wind. He now had no one to talk to. The thought of Murta running wild with the other ponies and possibly getting caught running through his mind as he mourned the loss of a great friend. 

Beijar rubbed his neck and popped his knuckles nervously as they reached the main path. He was still at the back of the group, away from the heavy gazes of his accompanying dwarrow. From behind them, Beijar craned his neck. An elf was approaching Gandalf, who had taken to leading the company through ‘the last homely house east of the sea’. 

“Mithrandir.” The elf greeted, bowing politely to the wizard. Beijar was lucky he had learned a lot of Arda’s new languages with his father before his passing. This meant he knew Sindarin, and also what they were saying to each other. 

“Ah, Lindir!”

The elf, Lindir, had long, straight, brown hair and a narrow nose. He responded to the wizard by saying“ _ We heard you had crossed into the Valley. _ ” Gandalf, however, did not respond in Sindarin, but rather in westron, stating: 

“I must speak with Lord Elrond.”

“My lord Elrond is not here.”

“Not here? Where is he?”

And as soon as the words left the old wizard's mouth, horns sounded, marking the arrival of the one they called Lord Elrond. 

Beijar had not met Lord Elrond before, but he had heard of the brave elf. This was the man who, with Isildur, took down Sauron. Sauron, Morgoth's first lieutenant. Beijar had a degree of respect for the elf and only hoped that it would not be ruined in their meeting. 

“ **Ready weapons!** ” Thorin commanded in Khuzdul before switching to westron for his second command. “Hold ranks!” 

The elves surrounded the group of huddled dwarrow. Beijar stood in the back, his leg still bleeding. The elves proceeded to circle around them and Beijar could feel their piercing gazes fall upon his tired, grimy shoulders. 

From behind the dwarves, Beijar could faintly make out the motion of a taller, brown haired elf getting off of his horse and walking over to Gandalf. 

“Gandalf.” He could not see what they were doing, but he could hear the soothing lilt of the old elf. 

“Lord Elrond.  _ My friend! Where have you been _ ?”

“ _ We’ve been hunting a pack of Orcs that came up from the South. We slew a number near the Hidden Pass _ .” A pause. “Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders. Something, or someone, has drawn them near.”

“Ah, that may have been us.” There was a shift in the dwarf ranks. 

“Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.” Elrond greeted. Beijar could hear the warm smile in his voice, it reminded him faintly of his grandfather in another age. 

“I do not believe we have met.” Came the gruff reply. 

“You have your grandfather’s bearing. I knew Thror when he ruled under the Mountain.” The grand elf was obviously attempting to engage in a conversation with the spiny dwarf king. 

“Indeed? He made no mention of you.” 

Beijar became embarrassed. These elves were doing nothing to earn his ire, and yet Thorin felt the need to insult Lord Elrond. Beijar didn’t like the situation any more than the company did, but he can understand the intricacies of social behaviours, and this wasn’t it. This would get them nowhere. 

“ _ Light the fires, bring forth the wine. We must feed our guests. _ ” Beijar felt horrible and wished he had the courage needed to step up and apologize to the elf lord, but he did not want to catch the ire of his companions nor did he want unnecessary elven attention upon him. 

“What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?” Gloin grumbled in a hostile manner, the dwarves held their weapons tighter and their armor creaked with the movement. 

“No, master Gloin, he’s offering you food.” Was Gandalf’s reply to the daft dwarf. 

“Ah well, in that case, lead on.” 

Beijar held back from the group, watching their merry departure from the platform they were formerly cowering on. The elves still on horseback were now moving along as well, most likely eager to get rid of the heavy armor and take care of their horses. Their eyes weighed upon him as they left. Beijar took to staring at his bare toes. They were still covered in dirt and one foot was covered in blood, just starting to dry and flake off. 

He wavered, exhausted and sighed.

.oOo.

When he looked back up, he was all alone in the clearing, though he could feel the weight of someone’s eyes still on his figure. 

“May I ask the spy to come out of their hiding spot?” He asked quietly, hoping that he would not come to regret this decision. 

He heard a sniffle and soft footfalls, and then, from behind him he felt someone’s presence.

He turned around and came face-to-shin with a very tall, very blond elf. 

“And who, might I ask, are you? Why were you watching me?” Beijar asked nervously, thrown between rubbing his neck or popping his knuckles. He did both. When the elf did not laugh or mock his strange accent, Beijar looked up and made eye contact with the taller being. His eyes were pale blue, his cheek-bones prominent, and his nose narrow. He was pretty. 

“I am the elf Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, little one. Who, might I ask, are you, and what brings you to Rivendell?”

Beijar had read about Glorfindel. He was the elf that was reborn by the Valar for his great deeds in slaying a Balrog. Beijar had hated when his people had to fight against Balrogs. However, back to the present, Beijar was quite nervous. Sure, it was easy for a band of Haltija to kill a Balrog, but a lone elf? Now that took the true spirit of a warrior, and gained even more respect than Lord Elrond.

“I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” He bowed in greeting. “I came with the company of thirteen dwarrow and a wizard.” He once more hated using his Hobbit name, wishing he could tell the warrior elf his true nature.

“That’s quite the company, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” A smirk rested upon his timeless face.

“Aye, that it is.”

And, without reason, they started to walk together, through no conversation or planning of their own. Beijar tried hard to hide his limp.

“So what brings a Hobbit, a Maia, and thirteen dwarves to Rivendell.” 

“I don’t quite know the whole thing, nor am I allowed to share it. But I will tell you, only if you promise to tell no one else—unless they know of it as well.” That gained a chuckle from the decidedly merry elf. 

“That’s quite the promise. But promise I will, nonetheless. You have my word that I will not share any of the information you are to share with me unless I know for sure another being knows as well.” 

“I thank you very much, Master Glorfindel.” 

The two stopped their stroll as they reached an isolated corridor. A statue of a woman stood tall upon a pedestal, in her arms was a long and flat stone that served to display the shattered remains of what must have been a very important sword. On the wall across from it was a tapestry depicting the downfall of Sauron by the very sword by it. Never before in this new age, had Beijar felt such reverence and vowed to come back at a later time so he could ruminate on it in solitude. 

“This place has been forgotten by many, we shall find the peace we require here.” 

They sat next to one another, a thick silence permeated the air, though it was not uncomfortable. 

Beijar found himself staring at the stone woman, unable to think of anything to say. He had promised to tell the grand elf what his purpose was on the journey, but he found himself wanting to tell the elf more, to tell him about his status as Haltijan—though he doubted the elf had ever heard of them before. The presence of such light things, such as the elf and the sword that had destroyed great evil, made him feel inferior, like he had no right to hide such a secret. 

He clear’d his throat, appreciating that Glorfindel gave him enough time to collect his thoughts. 

“Well, I suppose all my troubles with the dwarves began when Gandalf came to my front step over two months ago. I had not previously known the wizard, though I had heard many a thing about him. However, the wizard coerced me into entertaining all thirteen dwarves and then set upon my shoulders that I was to be a burglar for their company. I still do not know what exactly it is that a burglar does, but alas, I am here joining the dwarves on their quest to retake their mountain and fight a dragon. Though I suppose fighting the dragon will be the best part, it’s the journey to get to the dragon that is not.” 

All through his short explanation, Glorfindel stayed silent, attentively listening to all that Beijar had to say. This was the most respect he had been given since he was with Hamfast in the Shire. He missed the easy companionship between the gardener and himself. 

“May I ask why you think fighting a dragon would be the best part of your quest?” 

“Because I would be doing my part in eradicating Morgoth’s taint from Arda.” 

“Forgive me for asking, but why would a little being such as you worry about the extent of Morgoth’s taint? I rather thought that the worries of Hobbits largely concerned farming and social niceties.” 

“Shouldn’t every creature on Arda with goodness in their hearts be concerned about great evil such as his?” Beijar sighed, the jig was up and he was quite ready to end the conversation—a much different feeling than that he had felt earlier talking to Glorfindel. 

“I guess, beyond that, I  _ am _ much different from every other creature walking this earth. Though once I was not too different from the others.”

“Whatever do you mean Master Baggins?” Beijar chanced a look at the elf’s face. His handsome, fair features were turned down in confusion, though it wasn’t a fearful confusion but instead one born from an urge for knowledge. He felt, for the first time, that he had made the right choice in deciding to tell this elf. 

“This is the part where you must keep your promise for the end of your days, as my fate and the fate of my people rely on its secret.”

“Understood, but how monumental is this secret?” 

And so Beijar told Glorfindel about the once proud race of the Haltija. He explained the reason for their hiding, along with his state of treehood. He however did not disclose where it was his people had resorted to their most likely final resting place. He explained his confusion at his turning from tree to Hobbit, and how he desperately longed to get his form back. He told of his many regrets for letting his parents die before they were able to figure out the mystery, and how he no longer had anybody around him to talk to with the exception of the now long gone ponies.

When he finished his tale, the two sat in a heavy silence. Darkness had begun to set and Beijar realized that he had probably missed his chance to partake in dinner. He turned once more to the elf, intending to excuse himself, but was instead met with a question. 

“Why are you telling me this? Why me? Why now?”

“I suppose it is because I feel a sort of kinship with you. As you too have lived many an age, and fought against the worst of Morgoth’s minions. In a sense, we aren’t very much different.” 

“Hmm, I can see that. I thank you for sharing this with me. It is an honour to know that I am trusted in that degree.”

“Ay, make no mention of it. And not just figuratively. I have not grown all that close with my companions on account of my oddities and I fear what would happen if they were to find out I have been in leagues with an elf. No offense to you of course, but dwarves see the whole affair differently for some reason unbeknownst to me. Of course I have been asleep for three ages so I couldn’t have known even if I tried.”

.oOo.

When the conversation finally came to a close, Glorfindel offered to show Beijar to the set of rooms offered to guests, as well as have another elf bring him a portion of food seeing as the two had missed dinner during their lengthy discussion. 

It was now nighttime and the stars overhead seemed warmer in the Valley of Imladris. 

They had to walk quite a ways to finally reach the corridor of guest rooms. 

Beijar let out a tired sigh as the rooms came into view. He could now feel the grime layered upon his skin, caked in his hair, and desperately wished he was soaking in the warm water of a bath at the moment. This however, did not deter his achingly empty stomach and so he ate his meager meal of an undressed salad left to wilt on the dining table in the room. He reasoned with himself that the only reason he was hungry now was because he had not eaten in quite some time and had expended more energy in the past few days than the past few years. This seemed like a good enough excuse as any and so, felt content to disrobe and head to the connected bathroom. 

He unwound his hair from the coil he had tied it up in and felt the dirty, blood clodden locks trailing down his bare back. It was getting quite long now, but he had never cut it before. Not as a Haltija and not as a Hobbit. He looked at himself in the tall mirror on the wall, taking in his gaunt face and blank expression. Blood spatter from the earlier battle still staining his face and clothes. His hair was curling wildly around his face. That joined with his bare state and the black blood made him look like a wild beast, feral in its upbringing. He hoped he would not look the same after he got clean.

He stepped into the porcelain tub filled with warm water and started scrubbing the grime off. He had to refill the tub twice and still, little bits of dirt and grime stayed stuck to the side of the vessel. He felt mildly ashamed at the mess he had made, and so scrubbed the tub as best he could with the cloth he had cleaned himself with, desperate not to make a further mockery of himself beyond his appearance. He would never be good enough. He bandaged his wound and laid atop the too big bed. 

Nobody came calling after him for the rest of the night, and Beijar felt rather abandoned by his fellow companions. He heard their raucous laughter and cheerful shouts outside his door and felt that he could not blame them for their forgetting of him. He was the one that slipped away from the group and instead talked with what they felt was an enemy. His stupid need for acceptance and friendship led to further loneliness and denial. He was truly a masochist and he had no clue how to change that. 

.oOo.

Dwalin had been swept away by the situation. In the negative sense. He was swept away in the negative sense. 

After arriving at the Mahal-damned halls of the elves, they were quickly escorted to a long line of rooms. Suites more like, seeing as they had two rooms and a bathroom each. Despite the frivolous and rich appearance of the rooms, Dwalin felt extremely uncomfortable with the thought of leaving his family alone in the elvish halls. He would much rather cut off his ax arm than leave them to the mercy of the tree-shaggers. They could be taken one by one in the night by unseen enemies if they were to occupy the rooms on their own.

However, he was feeling particularly caked in mud after the journey to that point, and would so very much like a nice soak with his One. And so, he grabbed Thorin’s hand once the elf escort left, and dragged him in the nearest room cursing the lack of locks. 

“What has gotten into you  **Ghivashel** ?” Thorin muttered, hands winding around his waist.

“We haven’t been alone in so long  **Arsûn** ,” he grumbled back, his arms resting on Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin chuckled and bit into his ear, making Dwalin groan in response. 

The moment ended soon after—the two were both too filthy to continue on as they were. Dwalin drew the bath while Thorin started undressing, taking care of some of the buckles Dwalin possessed on his clothes as well. He turned around and kissed Thorin firmly, hands winding in dirty hair. They broke apart breathing heavily but with matching grins adorning both of their faces. It really had been too long since they were able to touch like this. 

The two sunk into the tub and released simultaneous groans of relief as their tense muscles relaxed in the heat. They both looked at each other and let out deep chuckles. It had been so long since they were able to relax and they were enjoying it. 

.oOo.

After their long, hot, relaxing bath, the two were dressed and on their way to the dining halls with their family surrounding them. Dwalin momentarily noticed the lack of halfling, but was too content with his newfound cleanliness and his family that he threw the thought away and continued on his way to eat. 

The feast was fun, despite the lack of meat. His boys had made a right mess of things, throwing food and disrupting the terrible harp music they had been playing. Dwalin laughed especially hard when the assistant elf who had initially greeted them was hit in the head by a chunk of bread and then a sort of round vegetable. 

After the feast the group went back to the hall where their rooms were located. This presented problems. Who was to sleep where? None of them wanted to be separated, and while it was fine for after journey relaxing, now it was imperative that they not be apart in the elvish halls. Dwalin’s previous fears were coming back to the forefront of his mind. 

“What’re we supposin’ to do now, eh?” Oin asked, his voice loud enough to carry over the others. 

“We should all set up camp on that balcony, it looks just big enough for our company, and it might annoy the elves too,” his brother Gloin replied haughtily. The others nodded at the marvelous idea and began to lay out their bedrolls, giving up a night of comfort to both annoy the elves and stay with their families. A cookout ensued as well as the destruction of many pieces of elven furniture, much to the dismay of their hosts.

.oOo.

Over the next few days Beijar found himself isolated and alone. 

He wandered through gardens and along trails, dipping his small hand within hidden creeks and ponds, smiling at the large fish residing there. He hid out in the hall with the sacred sword often, drawn by the pureness that shone from the blade. His leg wound had finally healed and was naught but a scab upon his skin. 

But while he enjoyed the nature, the setting, and the reprieve, he found himself longing to be a part of the company. Many a time he found himself straining his ears trying to listen to their rambunctious storytelling and fun making. He would seek them out in his periphery, hidden from view. He was a spectre in all sense of the word. 

He was not of their world, and he had thought he was fine with that. But his rejection brought up feelings he had when first integrating with the other Hobbits in the Shire. He wasn’t accepted there either with the exception of Hamfast. 

Along with his isolation from the dwarves, he was in a self-imposed isolation from the elves. 

He had second guessed his decision for telling the golden haired elf about himself and mourned the loss that his secret would be kept. For the elf would have surely told Lord Elrond by now. And so he ran, hiding away from every elf in sight, seeking out the dwarves. 

He was miserable and nothing could counteract that. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first movie is almost over!! I have two more chapters left that fall in 'An Unexpected Journey', so congrats for making it this far.


	7. Hebridean Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moments between Rivendell and Goblin town are harsh and unforgiving for outsiders amongst company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all y'all
> 
> I'm Realy bored so I'm posting another chapter today. I might post one on Saturday as well, we'll see. 
> 
> I'm considering making a separate but attached fic for this explaining the history and inner working of th Haltijan people, I wrote like pages and pages of history and cultural mores while I was a lifeguard last summer and I don't want to feel as though I wasted my time for something no one will even get to see. So there's that. I might wait a few chapters though so that the explanations make sense in regards to the rest of the story and don't spoil anything. 
> 
> Chapter titl is after "Hebridean Sun" by Vashti Bunyan (I considered the song "Come Wind Come Rain" but while the title of the sing fits, the actual song is a lot happier than this chapter)

.oOo.

After two weeks stay at Rivendell, Beijar found himself on a bench in a forgotten hall smoking his pipe. He was humming a song to himself in Haljitar. 

He had been humming quite awhile, and as such the song was nearly over. However, before he could reach the last verse he was interrupted by the rushed arrival of a behatted dwarf and two young dwarf princes. 

“Mr. Boggins, you are a hard halfling to find.”

“Kee, that’s not important right now.” 

“None of that lads, we have a message to deliver.”

“Right you are, Bofur.”

“What was the message again? Oh right!”

“Mr. Boggins,” the dwarf princes spoke in tandem.

“We are leaving Rivendell in thirty minutes time.”

“And Uncle expects you to be ready to leave then.”

“Or he said he was going to leave you behind with the accursed elves.”

Beijar nodded and put out his pipe, mourning that he didn’t finish the song and that his two weeks of safety were now coming to an end. 

“Alright then, thank you for telling me.” His accent sounded thicker to his ears after he had spent two weeks of only talking to himself in Haljitar.

A look was shared between the three dwarves in front of him before they jumped up and ran away, leaving a forlorn Beijar in their wake. 

Not understanding the reason they had run, Beijar slowly got up and put out his pipe. Though he was happy to finally talk to someone that was not himself, even though it was just to inform him that if he wasn’t there when they left, they would not wait for him. 

He went back to his room in a rush, hoping that maybe after they left Rivendell the dwarves would be nicer to him. They might even include him in their conversations! He gathered his stuff into a neat pile and placed each item in his pack, making sure to place it into his bag efficiently. 

He grabbed the personal effects he had always carried with him and placed them securely in the pack. If he lost them, he would lose a part of himself, a part of his culture. His mãe’s locket, his pai’s favourite whittling knife, his charm made from bone. He hadn’t even let Hamfast see them, so it was a wonder how nobody else saw them, (Considering the charm was at least as big as his fist, and his mãe’s locket just barely smaller than his head; though the whittling knife was Hobbit-sized).

His mother’s locket had been ‘round her neck when she turned into a tree, and so was slowly consumed by the bark until it was swallowed. Hidden from view. So, when they first turned into Hobbits, their old garments still adorned them, but instead of fitting they were horrifically oversized and left the wearers in naught but their own skin. The locket had fallen around his mother, the long fibrous chain equaling the size of a thick band of rope that was later used in the construction of Bag End. The contents of the locket had long since degraded and turned into ash—what it originally contained was lost to the ages. 

His own charm had been sewn into a pocket, only found later when they took the clothing apart for fabric to make new clothes, bedsheets, curtains, and pretty much anything else they could make to sell during the weekend markets. Beijar had felt much like a child, over excited, when he found the charm and had remembered whittling it with his father using a bone from the first evil creature he had killed. Back then, the creatures did not have names and were twisted beings of black rotting flesh and bone. They looked like wargs, but more dog-like, more muscular. They were capable of the same speech uttered by the ancient orcs, or as they called them  _ Urug _ . Beijar had heard something similar to it coming from the modern orc. 

The charm was in the shape of a curled up, now extinct creature. One that had been rather round and small; similar to a modern mouse. The creature, however, had softer fur and bathed in dust. He could only vaguely remember seeing the creatures. Beijar had once found one in the wild after getting hurt. He had understandably fallen in love with the creature and after it had run off, Beijar tried to find it, but it’s miniscule size was hard to find in comparison to Beijar’s hulking figure. 

.oOo.

He had to shake himself out of the memories and shouldered his pack with furrowed brows, cursing his natural inclination to daydream and get too caught up in his own thoughts. He could only hope the company had not left without him yet. 

He stepped out of his door, ready to find his companions. It was only then did he remember that Fili, Kili, and Bofur had neglected to mention where they were gathering before leaving. 

Beijar’s pulse quickened, panic rushed up in a nauseating force that made swallowing hard. 

The door shut behind him with a soft click and Beijar jumped, not anticipating it. 

“Your companions are at the entrance to the eastern pathway. You better hurry before they really do leave without you.”

Glorfindel was behind him.

.oOo.

“Where is that accursed halfling?” 

“We don’t know uncle—”

“Honest, we told him—”

“We were leaving in an hour—”

“If he decided to dawdle—”

“It is of no fault of ours.”

“Ay, the lads are right. I was with them. They delivered the message.”

“But did they mention where it was we were meeting?”

Two twin gulps sounded.

“Fili! Kili! I depended on you to deliver the message and I can now see how foolish it was of me to expect the message to be delivered correctly. Now we are down a member of the company. We shall wait for five more minutes before embarking in hopes the halfling catches up, or something of the like. I am extremely unpleased at having to wait like this.” 

.oOo.

It wasn’t that Glorfindel was avoiding Bilbo, the not-Hobbit. 

Actually, he was. 

With the reveal that the Hobbit was actually older than him and not a Hobbit, but something called a Ha-something-or-other, Glorfindel was upset. He was angry. 

He had lost everything before, during, and after his battle with the Balrog. He was forced to die by way of Burning. And he did. He did his duty to protect his people and the one he loved. 

So why was it that the Hat-somethings were relieved of their duty and sent to sleep for ages when evil still roamed Middle Earth. It was their fault he lost everything. He could have been happy and lived a full normal life if they hadn’t left, if they had been the ones to destroy the evil so rampant in the First Age. 

He had stormed and sulked and brooded for days. 

He sat for hours on end, watching Bilbo from afar, trying to understand why they abandoned everyone. He couldn’t even consult any ancient texts regarding the old race. They had roamed, fought, and hidden before even the elves were created in the first age, meaning no one was around to record their culture or purpose. 

Bilbo seemed very lonely, and it was understandable considering Glorfindel was told first hand that he was now the only person left of his race. This however did not rid the blond elf of his anger. 

No, what ended his anger was his wife. 

Erestor had sat him down after two weeks of irrational behaviour and asked what was wrong. 

“What would you do if you learned that the people who were supposed to stop bad things from happening just stopped one day and allowed evil to run rampant and you instead had to fight and consequently lose everything you ever loved because of their actions?” He was pacing as he asked, directing his anger towards his undeserving wife, the love of his now immortal life.

“Well first of all you can stop taking that tone with me and sit down. I will not allow your treatment of me to turn rotten.” Glorfindel looked down at his feet and sat down, choking back sobs as he realized his mistake. Erestor simply wound an arm around the blond elf’s shoulders, guiding his head into the crook of the neck of the brunet elf. The blond followed the action and choked back tears at the love being shown towards him. 

“Well the people in your supposedly hypothetical situation don’t owe you anything. They had their reasons and no one can demand action from another. That’s not how the world works. If your life was only about killing bad things, don’t you think you would go mad? No one man can stand that much evil—not even you, dear.”

And so, with these words Glorfindel set out to find the pseudo-Hobbit and try and apologize for his assumption that he was owed something by these people and Bilbo. 

On the way, however, the elf quickly figured out that the company was leaving. Bags were on their backs, stuffed with most likely stolen goods—not that it bothered Glorfindel. He wanted Bilbo to be as safe as possible on the journey. He quickened his step, eager to at least say goodbye to him. 

He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the lost Hobbit. Panic had filled his large brown eyes, and Glorfindel felt pity for the creature. 

“Your companions are at the eastern pathway. You better hurry before they really do leave without you.”

Bilbo jumped, looked at him and smiled sadly before running off, effectively ending Glorfindel's world-shattering revelation. 

.oOo.

Beijar ran through the quiet elven hallways, anxious to get to the company, fearing they had already left. He jumped up the large, elf-sized steps and wound his way around corners, holding back tears. 

He had  _ known _ he didn’t belong. He had faced that knowledge everyday since he had left his smial to join the dwarves. Nay, he knew that the moment he had looked down and saw his clothes weren’t fitting anymore and his hands were smaller than before. 

When he finally hit the home stretch, he saw the dwarves. Bunched up and chatting together as if nary a thing were wrong and it was time for afternoon tea gossip (Beijar was always a popular topic during these gossip sessions back home). 

However, at closer examination, Thorin was glaring at him. 

Beijar swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and stopped running. He kneeled over bracing his hands upon his knees and panted, trying to take in more oxygen than he was getting. Many of the dwarves went quiet, staring at him as if he were exaggerating his exertion. He finally stood up straight, wiping his brow before trailing silently behind the dwarves who had decided it was finally time to depart. 

.oOo.

It was raining heartily by the time they crossed Rivendell’s borders. Oilskins were unpacked and placed on broad shoulders. Beijar’s own, provided by the elves, was big on him and the hood made it hard to see for all that it engulfed him and covered his eyes. 

Days later, rain still poured, granting no reprieve from its torrent. Similarly, Beijar was not free from the torrent of abuse from the dwarves despite the rain. 

When setting up camp, he was required to find dry wood to make a fire under a covering of sorts. He would then help Bombur with the food and pass it out. 

No one spoke to him. It was as if they thought him deaf or invisible. They would talk to each other and joke around with each other in another language—their language, Khuzdul. Beijar was not included and got no thanks for helping with dinner, nor with finding firewood, nor with passing out the portions. At times he found himself thinking he didn’t truly deserve any thanks.

A great and heavy depression shifted into his heart and mind. He felt even more alone now than he was when actually isolated in the elven halls of Rivendell. He almost wished he had travelled alone. After all, it was much better to be alone and lonely than with company and lonely. 

It was a week later that they found themselves at the beginning of the mountain pass of the Misty Mountains. The rock was slick from the downpour still happening at present and Beijar slid as he stepped. 

Step. Step. Step. Splash. Step. Splash. The monotony was only broken by the broken shouts of the dwarves as they each moved forward one by one in a line. Bilbo was at the back of the line, which was par for the course at this point in their shared quest. He, however, hated this position in the line. It was easier for him to slip and fall without anyone else in the company noticing, allowing them to move along and not realize when or where they lost him. His body would be left to be ravaged by the wild and wind at the bottom of the bottomless drop. 

A deep rumble sounded above the thunder. It was near deafening, and Beijar let go of his hold on the rock face next to him to cover his poor sensitive ears. 

He could just barely hear Balin shouting in terror.

“This is no thunderstorm; it’s a thunder battle! Look!”

Beijar could see the giant humanoid rock beings throwing boulders and punching each other in the next flash of lightning. 

“Well bless me, the legends are true. Giants; Stone Giants!” Bofur exclaimed, he sounded excited and Valar fearing at the same time. A rock landed near them, sending a spray of smaller pebbles and rocks at the company. 

“Take cover: you’ll fall!” Thorin shouted. He grabbed Fili and Kili closer to himself and Dwalin and hugged the rock wall closer. Similarly, the smaller groups of family members mirrored Thorin’s actions, taking their sibling or relative and smashing their bodies as close to the wall as physically possible. Beijar was left alone, standing shivering. His heart broke a little bit more at the physical reminder that he was worth nothing to them, possessed no connection. 

The rock giants grew closer and Beijar sent a small prayer to Yavannah, hoping that he could at least see his parents in the afterlife. He whispered in Haljitar, his words being carried away by the howling gales rushing past. He was far enough away from the group they couldn’t hear his useless prayers. 

In a last-ditch effort, he yelled to the rock giants, begging them to stop. 

“ **_Oh great giants, I implore all of your mercy. Please stop this fighting!_ ** ” 

He was not anticipating a response to his pleas. 

“ **_Alas! A speaker. We have long forgotten why we are fighting, but now we find we cannot stop!_ ** ”

This was a terrifying notion. These powerful beings were unable to control themselves, leaving their wiles to a third, unknown party who had unmistakably showed they did not want the company to find the end of their quest, never mind the end of the mountain path.

A rock shook, crumbling away and separating half of the dwarves from the other half. The half that Beijar found himself on had crumbled away behind him. He smacked the rock with all his might, the bone in his right hand’s ring finger cracked.

“ ** _HALT!_** He shouted, his voice strong and pain filled. The rock stopped moving. “ ** _GO BACK TO WHENCE YOU CAME FROM! DON’T MIND US NO BOTHERS! WE SEEK NOT MORE BUT SAFE PASSAGE AND ASK THAT YOU AID IN OUR WISH!_** "

“ **_Very well, small one. We shall endeavor to let the lot of you pass._ ** ”

The shifting of the rock giants back to their original positions was way more hazardous than anticipated. Rocks went flying as their giant counterparts plopped down on one range and the next. More rocks went flying as they shifted into a more comfortable position.

A big hunk of rock from one such instance came flying right towards Beijar and company. Though he was not privy to this knowledge, seeing as the Haltija himself was clutching to the rock wall and cradling his broken fingered hand to his chest and breathing into the wound, trying to ignore the pain. 

The rock smashed right in front of Beijar, causing him to stumble and fall off the side of the treacherous cliff the company was atop. 

.oOo.

Thorin felt his heart stop when he saw the boulder hurtling towards his nephews and his One. They had been separated by the large seam that ripped through the pathway, cutting one half of the company from the other. His desperate attempt to reach out for them proved fruitless and he could do little to stop the path of the stone as it smashed into the cliffside, his nephews and husband seemingly crushed by its unforgiving surface and weight. 

He cried out their names and stepped closer in horror. He couldn’t lose the love of his life, his husband. He couldn’t lose those boys, his nephews. They were like sons to him. He could not lose anymore family. He would sooner rather die with them than be separated by the veil of passing. 

He stumbled to the large gap in the rock, leaning over the crevice, tears burning the back of his eyes. He growled, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He could not show any weakness. Not now. He didn’t deserve to show any weakness.

An exclamation sounded, it sounded like Balin, who was standing right next to him. Thorin looked up and saw a hand poke out from around the rock. It was Dwalin, his One. He grunted and Thorin jumped over the gap in the rock. He pushed the loose stones over the ledge with the help of Dori, Bifur, Bombur, Balin, Oin, and Nori. One by one, family members were revealed as bruised and scraped but generally fine. 

“Where is Bilbo? Where’s the Hobbit?” Bofur called, urging the company to look with him.

“There!” Ori cried. His finger pointed in the direction of the ledge side and towards the sheer drop. Well that was that. The Hobbit was gone. A strange ache in the depths of his heart started and Thorin had no clue as to why. However, he saw the tips of small fingertips and knew the halfling was still alive. 

“Get him!” Dwalin shouted, his eyes met Thorin’s and he could see panic in them. His husband’s incessant need to protect everyone coming across in his desperate manner.

He watched as Ori dove onto the ground and tried to grasp onto the small burglar’s hand, or arm, or wrist. Something to hoist him up with. The other members of the company, barring himself and Gloin gathered on the edge as they watched the halfling lose his grip on the ledge and fall. 

He fell a few feet before grasping onto another hold. A collective sigh of relief quickly took over the gasps of fear. Arms were stretched down in desperation, though none could reach the burglar. 

Thorin finally had enough. They were wasting time trying to save this imbecile of a halfling. 

“Move,” he growled, effectively clearing a pathway for him to swing down onto a ledge to reach the moronic burglar. He had never been so glad he was a dwarf as his stone sense aided him in finding the strong stones to set his weight upon. 

He grabbed the halfling, momentarily stumbling back. He did not expect him to be so light; he weighed practically nothing. Thorin shrugged off the wave of concern threatening to crash into him and virtually threw him up to the others. They grabbed the Hobbit and manhandled him against the rock to make sure he didn’t spill over the ledge once more. 

There was yet another problem though. The heavy rain was still pouring, beating down on Thorin’s bare face. His hair and beard weighed him down along with his furs, armor, and coat. His grip was slowly failing him as his fingers cramped and seized. Dwalin got down on his knees, arm outstretched. 

The king grasped onto his husband’s hand hoping to Mahal they both didn’t just crash down and die amongst the rocks at the bottom of the cliffside before they were even halfway through their quest. 

Dwalin pulled and braced and pulled some more. Thorin tried to aid him by sticking his boots into cracks in the rock and pushing himself up. His foothold broke and he started to slide, but Dwalin—Mahal bless—pulled him up and they both sat panting on the path. Rain still pelting them with an unrivaled fury. 

When they all managed to get up and get moving again, an unsteady feeling had rested upon the company. They almost just lost half their number, as well as their king. It was only luck and the mercy of Mahal that allowed them to continue on without much grievance. 

“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” Dwalin announced to the company at large, most likely to break the silence and make light of the situation. No one laughed and Thorin felt angry. He had almost slipped to his death trying to rescue the helpless halfling. 

“He’s been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place

amongst us. Dwalin!” He took his husband aside to a nearby cave. They strolled in cautiously and silently.

“It looks safe enough.”

“Search to the back; caves in mountains are seldom unoccupied.” Dwalin, heeding the warning and knowing how upset his kingly husband was, took an empty lantern and lit it, searching the cave thoroughly before Thorin even considered letting the company in. 

“There’s nothing here,” he said, coming closer to the king. 

Thorin looked down at his lover’s lips and licked his own chapped ones. He almost lost the love of his life twice today and he could not bear it. He was not just guilty, but also ashamed at his own ineptitude.

“I almost lost you. I can’t lose you. I love you too much.” Dwalin nodded, his hands coming up to cup Thorin’s strong jaw. He leaned into the touch. 

“Ay, my love. I almost lost you too, you know.” He kissed the king firmly. “What is a captain to do without his king? All would be lost if I lost you.” They kissed once more. 

They came apart and looked into each other’s eyes. Dwalin’s brown eyes were the colour of good, rich earth. Thorin could imagine the sunlight hitting his eyes, the hidden flecks of gold would be illuminated, reminding Thorin of the tender veins in the mountain that nursed their people. Dwalin was handsome and beautiful and strong and all that one would look for in a dwarf. 

Their moment was quickly interrupted by Gloin, who felt it appropriate to drop a load of soaked firewood onto the floor that he found somewhere, rubbing his hands at the prospect of some warmth. 

“Right then! Let’s get a fire started,” the red-haired dwarf announced happily. 

Thorin felt his heart drop. A fire could bring many an unwanted guest during the night. 

“No, No fires, not in this place. Get some sleep. We start at first light.”

The others groaned at this, but acquiesced to the command, knowing that Thorin had their best interests at heart. Which was true. Thorin wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to his company (he steadfastly refused to include the accident prone halfling as a member of the company). 

Balin came up to him. 

“We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us. That was the plan.” Thorin sighed heavily, no matter what was happening, or who was in danger, the wizard would remain unapologetically late.

“Plans change.” He looked around at the members of the company, skipping over the sight of the curled up Hobbit who had started to wheeze at some point between his fall and his presence in the cave. “Bofur, take the first watch.”

.oOo.

The rest of the company had fallen asleep already. Fili was on one side of Thorin, curled up together next to Kili and Ori. Dwalin was on his other side, face resting against the king’s neck. Bofur was humming softly to himself at the cave entrance, his pipe resting against his lip as the smoke curled from his nose. 

Thorin had assumed that he was the only one up, except the hat wearing dwarf. This thought was proven wrong however as the halfling stood up from his empty corner of the cave. 

Thorin made no move to hinder the halfling, nor call attention to himself as the burglar walked to the entrance of the cave. The rain had stopped a little less than an hour ago and yet the dripping sound of water droplets cascading down rock into puddles still sounded. 

The halfling had his pack resting upon his shoulders. His coat—still wet and dripping—was wrapped around his thin frame and his sword belted to his waist loosely (Thorin could see where extra holes had to be added to the belt to make it smaller, but to no avail it seemed as it was still unfitting). 

He stopped next to Bofur, though Thorin did not know why. It was obvious the Hobbit was leaving the company, most likely heading back to Rivendell where he belonged. So why was he stopped next to Bofur as though he were going to say something? Nobody in the company had spoken a word to him since they informed him they were leaving Rivendell a week ago. Nor had anyone spoken to him the entire length of their stay there. So why now?

“Good bye, Bo-fer,” his voice was faint, cowardly. 

“Now where do ya think yer goin’? Ye belong here with tha company.” 

The contrast between the informal lilt to Bofur’s Khuzdul accent was harsh against the trailing, river stone smooth intonation the halfling possessed. 

“I am leaving. Where I am going does not matter.”

“No, no, ye can’t turn back now, yer part of the Company. Yer one ‘f us.”

“But I am not. This is plain. I have heard what Mr. Oak-in-sheeld has said. You have too. You all don’t respect me. Never once did I get thanked for leaving my house. In fact, far from thanks, I get ignored!” His voice rose with sorrow, his accent getting thicker and tangled, his words blurred together. Thorin chanced a look at the halfling’s face and saw tears spring up to his large eyes. 

“You’re homesick; I understand.” Ah Bofur, ever the peaceful one. He believed he could talk the burglar into staying, though Thorin could tell it would not work. 

“You cannot be homesick without a home. That is a shared understanding between us, and yet, you cannot rid yourselves of your prejudice.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, his right hand twitching towards his neck. “So I am leaving. And you can’t follow me where I am going. Nor do I think you want to.”

“I wish you all the luck in the world, Bilbo. I really do.”

“Thank you, but I don't need luck where I am going.”

“What does that mean?”

Thorin watched as the halfling took a step near the ledge. 

“Where are ye goin’?” Bofur sounded panicked as the halfling took another step towards the ledge. “Tell me where yer goin’.” Another step and he was at the edge. “Wha’s tha’?” 

Indeed, what was that? A glowing blue light emitted from the sword still in its scabbard at the Hobbit’s waist. The burglar looked panicked as he laid eyes on it. 

“Goblins.”

Thorin jumped up, startling Dwalin and Fili awake. A line of sand started falling, revealing an entrance.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Dwarrow grumbled as they looked around in sleep induced confusion. A creaking sound ricocheted across the cave’s interior and they fell. 

.oOo.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goblin Caves


	8. By The Wall/Mongrel Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goblin Caves, Goblin Caves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey cowboys, and whatever the opposite of cowboys are. 
> 
> Another Chapter!!! Yoohoo. 
> 
> Originally supposed to be posted tomorrow, but I'm putting off scholarship applications, so I decided to edit and post this chapter instead. :)
> 
> I caved and started watching Tiger King, which is weird for me considering I live in Oklahoma and I had never heard of this ordeal before, and it just makes me really sad to think about the animals. 
> 
> Anyhow, this is the last chapter that contains events in the first hobbit movie. This is largely an AU of the movies, but there are some book elements I guess later on, but I haven't read the books so it's just based off of other fics I've read that went off of book canon. There are larger alterations to canon coming, and it will be kind of obvious when it does. 
> 
> Yeehaw. Have fun reading. 
> 
> Chapter title is after "By the Wall" by Tomas Dvorak -- specifically regarding the scenes where Beijar is in the caves. The second is "Mongrel Heart" by Broken Bells for the rest of the chapter.

.oOo.

He had been at the very edge of the cliffside. 

It would have been so easy to jump off the side and be done with it. He wouldn’t be in his Haltija form, but death in the wrong form would have been preferable to any second more of the mistreatment he had faced at the hands of the company. He could only hope he would find the same place of solace as his mãe and pai. 

Bofur had been demanding an answer, and Beijar knew that his quest for an end would be hindered by the well-meaning but cruel dwarf. After all, Beijar had already failed once in an attempt to take his own life. The verdict was still out on whether or not that was a good thing. 

When attention was brought to the sword, Beijar had been understandably confused. He hadn’t paid the sword any mind since he had first received it. When his eyes rested upon its glowing surface, he grew scared. 

Gandalf had told him that the blade would glow blue when orcs or goblins were near. 

Orcs didn’t favour caves in the mountains, however goblins did. 

“Goblins,” he said. His mind wandered and he couldn’t move as a crack in the sand revealed itself and Thorin was shouting for everyone to wake up. Beijar was frozen as the floor dropped from beneath the dwarves. Even Bofur, who was at the edge of the cave was grabbed by another dwarf in an attempt to not fall. 

Beijar remained alone. He was still standing by the edge of the cliff, unable to make a move as he watched the heavy wooden trap doors swinging back and forth. He did not know how much longer the doors would stay open and now he had a choice to make. 

  1. He could continue on his own path of self destruction that ultimately ended in his death. 



Or 

  1. He could jump down the trap door and follow the dwarves that had mistreated him. 



On one hand, the dwarves were a ruthless bunch that, if given the power, would make sure any other race was below them. On the other hand, these dwarves were still young—they just wanted their home back. Beijar could understand that. They had also given him a purpose and a way to find out why he had turned into a Hobbit in the first place. They had given him so much and wouldn’t he be selfish to leave them to their deaths when they didn’t want to die? 

With his mind made up, he walked towards the edge of the hole in the cave. 

It looked as though a ramp or a slide had been built to carry the unsuspecting victims to the goblins. The structural integrity of the structure was spotty at best, and at worst was a builders nightmare filled with splintering wood and rickety railings paired with uneven divots. It would be a very uncomfortable journey down into goblin town and yet he knew he had to do it for the betterment of the dwarves who mistreated him. 

He took a deep breath, and stepped closer. When the doors started to close again he jumped, sliding down the long and winding ramp he was deposited on to. 

.oOo.

He was spit out on a creaking and groaning wooden platform. 

Torches were lit and scattered around scaffolds and poles seemingly at random—but a fire hazard nonetheless. The floorboards shifted and moved under him as he took a look around. 

Goblins were screeching and squealing ahead, seemingly happy to torment a band of dwarves. None noticed him as he sat there in confusion. Next to him, a few feet away, a pile of packs sat abandoned. They belonged to the company and Beijar couldn’t  _ not _ grab them. He would be forlorn if he were to lose his pack with his parents' belongings still in it and knew the dwarves—who were very family oriented—would be similarly distraught. 

He pulled loose a wooden pole that had been serving as a rail liner, but now was going to serve as a bag holder. He strung up pack after pack and rested it on his shoulder. When all was said and done, he looked around once more. He did not know where to go from here. He had not thought through any plan or any way to save the dwarves. 

With a blank mind, he stepped forward. He was going to follow the path that was laid out before him that the dwarves had been taken down. 

He had to stop several times in order to dodge small bands of overexcited goblins. He didn’t dare kill them for fear they would alert bigger groups and he would be killed at the hands of such filth before he managed to rescue the dwarves. He had just gone through a major internal battle with himself regarding the fate of the dwarves and had to bully himself into coming—and he was not about to waste that effort. 

He was getting closer. He could tell because more and more goblins were swarming the pathway and surrounding areas. It was only by sheer luck that he hadn’t been found yet. 

He thought he heard a sound from behind him, knocking one of the packs against the rail and causing a loud creaking sound to try and see if anything was truly there. Four goblins jumped at him. One managed to sink its claws into the side of Beijar’s face. He cried in pain and stumbled back. 

The rail was a weak thing and could not support the weight of Beijar, the packs, and the goblin and so it snapped. Beijar fell backwards into the sprawling caverns below, taking the goblin still attached to his face with him. 

.oOo.

When Beijar woke up from the fall, he hurt all over. 

He took several deep breaths in an attempt to temper the pain. 

When he managed to open his eyes it was to a mostly dark cave. In his immediate surroundings, however, there lay a patch of bioluminescent mushrooms—many of which he crushed at the end of his long fall. 

He could feel droplets of blood dripping from the gouged bits of skin on his face. Upon closer inspection, he prodded at five messy chunks not but the size of a small marble making a crescent shape around his left eye. He could do nothing for the injury now and so grit his teeth and stood up.

His pack had fallen from his shoulders and now lay spilled open with the other packs. He scooped the contents up and repacked it, finding his sword nearly unsheathed next to it. It still glowed, matching the same ethereal glow as the mushrooms surrounding him. Its beauty was harrowing. 

He heard a growl from far off and a screech. The blue glow of the sword flickered out and Beijar was reluctant to learn what caused the sword to go out. He grabbed the broken pole and once more put the packs along the now shorter piece and hefted them up, ignoring the protesting of his leg, hand, ribs and face. He walked a few steps and his bare toe met with a piece of metal. A shriek sounded and Beijar couldn’t tell if it was in his mind or not. 

The packs and pole fell from his overburdened shoulders and he dropped to his knees. All his injuries were forgotten in an instant. 

He forgot about his broken finger, he forgot about the bleeding gouges in his face, he forgot about the scrapes and bruises and random scratches littering his emaciated form. 

He leaned forward and scooped up the seemingly innocent golden ring from its place among the mud and rocks and moss. The second he touched it, it was as if his brain fried. He couldn’t feel his body anymore and he felt as though all of the burdens in the world were no match for him and  _ his  _ ring. 

Then, as if he were two people instead of just one, a voice in his head commanded him to drop the ring. It slipped from his fingers and he gasped as he came back into his body. 

It felt as though he were finally let in on a secret and something in his mind clicked. He needed to destroy this ring before it destroyed everything. This object was one of great evil and must be abolished at all costs. 

**_“ BEGONE GREAT EVIL AND RETURN NO MORE TO DWELL ON THIS GOOD EARTH!”_ ** It felt as though several voices were ripping through his vocal cords and the ring melted on to the ground below it, turning to ash as it met the cool, damp stone under it. A wave of power ran through the cave and he heard a splash as something fell into the lake that he could now see perfectly clearly. 

Then, as if in a dream, the cave grew once more dark.

.oOo.

Beijar grabbed the packs and stumbled around the darkened cave. His foot sank into the water from the lake. He yelped and yanked it, momentarily losing his balance. He felt panicked—as though something were after him. The wounds on his face were oozing blood and some periodically dribbled into his eye. His finger burned and he could feel the bone grinding against itself. 

The unending darkness of the cave swallowed him, pulling him apart and leaving him in pieces. He couldn’t tell where anything started, anything ended. He was disoriented. Through his sword and his good hand, he made to feel around the craggy walls of the open chamber. Holes in the wall smaller than him made appearances, but none promising. 

The air was stale around him and smelt muddy, musty, moldy, and earthly. The silence around him sucked him in with the repetitive sound of water dripping from the rock formations hanging from the cave ceiling he had seen with the glow of the sword before it went out. 

Eventually, he reached a dim offshoot of the cavern he had been stumbling around in. It was faintly illuminated and Beijar felt a trickle of hope enter his heart. He might finally be able to leave the accursed cave he had been wandering for a long time. 

He slipped through the narrowing passages—squeezing between rocks and throwing the packs ahead of him before slipping through and remounting them atop his shoulders. The process was long and he was tired, but still he weathered on. 

He knew not of the dwarves fate at the hands of the goblins overhead, but still he weathered on. 

.oOo.

Not minutes later, he heard the cheers of the dwarves. They were whooping and yelling in victory as they ran. Beijar could hear their heavy footfalls getting farther from him and he felt at that moment that it was an accurate description of his relationship to the company. 

He hurried along, eager to return the packs to their rightful owners and be rid of the lonely mountains forever. He however knew in his heart he would have to come back after the quest to rid the mountain of its goblin invaders.

.oOo.

He had reached the entrance! He had finally made it to the opening in the mountain that served as a doorway. The bright dawn light illuminated his face and he welcomed the warm rays upon his skin. He remembered how he had once longed for the deeper skin colour of the other Hobbits, but was never able to achieve it—even after many days baking in the sun whilst gardening. 

He saw the dwarves running into the trees a great distance away. He wished he could be counted amongst them. He wished he could run amongst them as an equal. 

He ran out of the mountain and towards the trees—his feet falling heavy against the ground and his breath coming in short bursts. 

Distantly, he could hear Gandalf yelling.

“Where’s Bilbo? Where is our Hobbit? Where is our Hobbit?!” his great voice boomed. Beijar couldn’t find it in himself to yell in response. He was still wheezing from running with injured ribs, several packs, and his throat burned from whatever had happened with his voice and the ring. 

“Curse the halfling! Now he’s lost?!” Dwalin cried angrily. 

“Well, where did you last see him? What happened exactly? Tell me!” Gandalf asked in response. Beijar finally caught up to them, but rested upon a tree a ways away still. This was his chance to see how they really felt about him. 

“I’ll tell you what happened. Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door! We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.” Beijar sighed long and hard at the harsh words of one Thorin Oakenshield. None of what he said was true; he longed not for false comforts, but rather belonging—a place amongst the others. 

“No, he isn’t.” Beijar’s voice creaked with the words. Everyone looked up at him in surprise as he stepped out from behind the tree, bent from the packs weighing heavily on his shoulder still. 

“Bilbo Baggins! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”

He dropped the many packs and cheers rang out as everyone grabbed their belongings. 

“Bilbo, we’d given you up!” Kili shouted joyfully. Beijar thought that they had given up on him the moment they saw him. Nonetheless, he was glad that they all seemed to be happy with his presence. A warmth blossomed in his pounding heart—rattling ‘gainst his ribcage. At that moment he once more forgot about his injuries.

“How on earth did you get past the Goblins?!” Fili asked.

“And you got all our stuff. How did you manage that?” Ori questioned.

“How indeed,” Dwalin pondered aloud. 

“I was outside of the door when it fell, but then the rocks crumbled and I fell along,” he lied easily. “I saw your packs at the bottom, but you all were already gone. The goblins did not see me. I grabbed the packs and tried to follow, but then a goblin attacked and I fell down into the depths of the cavern.” He gestured to his face and could see a few of the dwarves wincing. “I landed on some mushrooms and tried to find my way out of the caves.” He nodded and decided the story ended there. His voice was growing hoarser and the sound grated on his ears.

“Why did you decide to come back, halfling?” He winced once more at the harsh words of Thorin. 

“You don’t have a home. I know what that’s like. Yours got stolen and I want to help all of you get it back. I grabbed the packs because I know how valuable one’s personal effects are. If I were to lose anything in my pack I would be devastated and I don’t want anyone to feel that way.” At this point he was groaning out the words, his voice not much more than a grumbled whisper. 

The dwarves all looked at him in awe. 

Then they heard the howls.

.oOo.

They were running. 

Bare and shoe-covered feet pounded against the wispy grass atop the dry dirt. For all that it had rained up in the mountains, the air here was dry and suffocating. 

The yellow grass thickened with every league the band covered and hours ran, leading them to a dry wooded area. The sound of snapping jaws urged them impossibly forward. Darkness fell upon them quickly as they came upon a dead end. 

The edge of the cliff was as much a cause for concern as their impending doom. Not only did it mark the fact that they were not likely to leave this encounter unscathed, they would additionally have great difficulty finding the correct path to Erebor later on. He could faintly hear the panicked call of Tharkûn:

“Up into the trees, all of you! Come on, climb! Bilbo, climb!” Few wargs were taken down by various members of the company. Bifur threw an axe, killing a warg which was steadfastly approaching him. Bofur jumped off a rock and grabbed a tree branch, using Dwalin’s head as a stepping stone to the tree in an impressive show of gymnastic ability. Thorin looked around and spotted the foolish Hobbit. The halfling had stabbed a warg and tried to pull his sword out of its dead head, but it stuck firmly. He continued to pull as the orcs steadily approached.

“They’re coming!” Thorin shouted, finally, anxiety laced his rough voice. 

With great panic, the dwarrow jumped up onto the nearest tree branches and pulled themselves up, up, and up into the canopy. 

Thorin was not scared. Adrenaline flowed through his brain as the trees shook with the full force of the wargs below slamming their bodies into the mighty trunks. 

Across a gap and in another tree stood Fili and Kili, grasping on the thinning branches with twin looks of terror pasted on their youthful faces. Thorin hated that look. It meant failure. He was failing, and if they survived, he would need to try harder. While their journey as of late had not been easy, they had grown too lax in the halls of the elves to get back into the groove of hardship that came with travelling like they had. 

Through the trees, several orcs astride their wargs gathered in the brush, not yet willing to give up their cover. 

The trees started to creak. 

.oOo.

When the trees started creaking, Beijar knew then and there that the possibility of their demise had just grown more certain. 

The trees finally gave out, bowing and crying under the weight of several dwarves combined with the wargs throwing themselves bodily at the base of the tree. Tears sprung to his eyes as the trees shrieked as they buckled and snapped, groaning as they fell and got trampled on. 

The next scene reminded Beijar of the chaotic circus acts he had read about that sometimes occur in the richer mannish kingdoms. Dwarves were leaping around in the air from snapping branch to snapping branch. Their acrobatics through the air had momentarily distracted Beijar, as the branch from under him bowed, creaking as it tried to hold on and keep him safe, trying to refrain from breaking entirely. 

He clutched to the thinning trunk and moved to his feet, trying to get off the tree as fast as possible to relinquish it of its burden. He leapt off the branch and to the next tree, and the branch broke under him. Tears sprung free from his eyes as he whispered prayers to Yavannah for the brave sacrifice the trees made to keep them all safe. The trees did not deserve to be attacked, but they took the brunt of the damage. 

Trees fell behind him as the wargs rammed them down. Beijar leapt fast. The dwarves were one step ahead of him, and he feared they would leave him behind as a distraction while they made their escape. He jumped faster. 

They had finally reached the last tree and there was nowhere left for them to jump except for the steep mountain side that left Beijar dizzy when he looked down to the far off valley floor. Nobody could survive a fall that steep, he certainly wouldn’t. 

The branches were crowded and the tree, although brave and tenacious enough to choose this spot to bloom and grow, could not hold the complete weight of them all. 

He looked up at the terrified faces of the dwarves above him. They were all so young. Even Balin, Oin, and Dori, who seemed grey in old age, had lived only a blink of an eye compared to Beijar’s continued existence. They all believed they were to die during this battle. 

Further up the tree, at near the very peak of the top, Gandalf was positioned in such a way that he could see everything around him. But, he did not look nearly as panicked as the others. The old wizard had a plan. A pinecone found its way in the grey Istari’s hand and Beijar watched enthralled as he set the pinecone alight with not more than a whisper of a word and his other palm. He grabbed another pinecone and did the same. He passed the lit projectiles to the dwarves directly underneath him (which just so happened to be Fili and Kili who were notorious in the group for having the best aim out of all of them). 

With lit pinecones now being passed to everyone, Beijar watched as the forest floor caught on fire from the sparks and embers of the flaming seed cases. He could not do anything as the flames lapped at the fallen trees and set them too, alight. A flaming pine cone was handed to him too, but he could not bring himself to throw it. His aim would be true, and would likely dole out damage to any orc of his choosing, but at what cost? He had spent his whole life pre-first age protecting the very things that were on fire in front of him. The fire licked at his palm and melted the skin there, blistering the meaty flesh of his hand and adding burning skin to the strong scent of burning pine. 

Gloin stared at him with a wild expression on his face as the fire continued to eat at his hand until he had the good sense to toss it. The effect, however, was lessened by the chunk of skin ripping away and flying attached towards the closest orc. It wasn’t a particularly good throw, nor was it an important orc—a small unthreatening bootlicker if anything. The orc fell, the fire melting its already grotesque features. Its eyes deliquesced and dripped from its sockets, letting out an ear piercing screech as it perished. 

When Beijar came back to himself, his hand caused him such great pain that he couldn’t move. He had not ever been touched directly by the afflictions that fire has been known to cause. His hand was so hot it felt like it was freezing and falling off while simultaneously festering and burning. He had never felt anything similar and tears dripped down his already wet face for a different reason. 

A white orc astride a white warg emerged from the flames, coaxed out from his hateful hole with the promise of death and destruction. 

.oOo.

Thorin could not help the way his stomach dropped from its place and fell through the earth and into the valley behind him. 

“Azog.” 

Azog the Defiler was standing right in front of him. The filth’s arm was missing, but that he already knew. It had been replaced with a harsh tool in the shape of a claw and he watched as one of his henchmen wrenched the extension from its socket and replaced the claw with a much longer blade. Perfect for killing off the last of the Line of Durin. 

“ Do you smell it? The scent of fear? I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin son of Thrain. ”

White noise filled his ears as the harsh and guttural language of black speech was yelled at him. He wished he was in Dwalin’s arms, he wished he was anywhere but here. 

The battle of Azanulbizar raged within his head, replaying the scene of his grandfather’s death, his father’s end, and his brother’s demise. 

“It cannot be.”

Azog grew closer, the great white warg padding forward and taking its time as the forest around them fell down with flame. 

“ That one is mine. Kill the others! Drink their blood! ”

The tree under them creaked and groaned as the roots came up and left them dangling overside the valley below. Cries of frightened dwarrow sounded through the air. He could not seem to remove his eyes off of his mortal enemy as Azog sneered, pleased at the prospect of the fight being easy. Thorin could hear a shriek as the tree beneath him groaned and in his periphery saw Ori drop. A shriek sounded in the air through the crackling flames and Thorin felt an overwhelming sense of sheer failure. 

He heard Dori shout and managed to crane his neck and watch as Ori grasped onto his brother’s ankles. Not all was lost. Not yet.

He scrambled up onto the horizontal trunk, the muscles in his arms screaming all the while. He drew Orcrist. He would lay down this worm. 

.oOo.

Beijar had been slammed against the trunk as the tree beneath him fell, precariously dangling them over a long drop. 

Before the goblin caves, he had been determined to throw away his life, but in the light of the current situation, he couldn’t abandon the dwarves to their fates as he plummeted to his death.

From the corner of his eye, he could see someone climbing on to the thick and sturdy trunk. 

.oOo.

Thorin ran forward, cries ripping from his throat and Dwalin’s. His sword was raised as he charged the pale orc. 

.oOo.

Dwalin’s heart stopped as his husband stood in front of one of the only things that could kill the stubborn bastard. 

.oOo.

Beijar tried to climb atop the trunk, body protesting harshly at the action. He panted as he grew weary and tired. He couldn’t let exhaustion take hold of him whilst he was dangling over a sheer drop several kilometers down.

.oOo.

Thorin couldn’t see anything but Azog in front of him. His vision had gone red with anger and his movements turned reckless as he swung his sword. His oaken shield finding its way into his other hand. Thorin felt at home at this moment. 

.oOo.

Fili watched in horror as his beloved uncle charged forward. Though he had faith. It wasn’t until the Warg leapt that his stomach dropped and bile rose to the back of his throat. He wanted to go back to the warm embrace of his mother and the sooty halls of Ered Luin. 

.oOo.

Dwalin couldn’t stand this. The warg had its paw atop his husband, and surely this would be the last time he saw Thorin breathing, wouldn’t it? The warg would crush his head with its great maw and that would be the end of Thorin’s life and his.

.oOo.

Thorin had to get back up, he had to. His life, his honor, his people depended on this fight. He was determined to make it out victorious. Nevermind the burning of his now crushed rib cage. He stood, swinging his sword towards the beast and its rider. 

.oOo.

Dwalin tried to get up, his great paws straining against the sharp bark of the tree he was grasping onto. He was a warrior damn it! He should be right there beside his king, fighting to protect him. Azog swung his mace and smashed Thorin in the face before he could react. Thorin was brutally flung to the ground by the impact. Dwalin shouted, mourning his husband. Near him, he could hear his brother shouting. 

.oOo.

Beijar managed to get on top of the trunk. He walked forward unsteadily, lifting his sword with his burnt hand. The flesh stuck to the handle and Beijar grew nauseated with the pain and smell. The White Warg clamped its jaws around Thorin and Thorin yelled in pain.

.oOo.

Dwalin tried harder to get up, the cries of his One sending pain through his heart. The tree branches he was holding on to broke, leaving him swinging precariously over the edge and preventing him from reaching Thorin.

“Thorin! No!”

.oOo.

Thorin could do no more as he was lifted into the beast's mouth. His head was fuzzy and his body hurt all over. He grabbed his sword firmly in hand and used the pommel to hit the warg in its stupid face. Its roar was deafening as it threw him onto a flat rock, knocking his head. He let go of his sword.

“ Bring me the Dwarf’s head. ”

.oOo.

Beijar stumbled off of the tree as a different orc stood over Thorin’s prone body. It had its sword against the king’s throat and Beijar snarled as it drew the weapon back—intending to decapitate its victim. Before the creature could swing down, Beijar threw himself at it. Stabbing it in the head and neck, getting himself drenched in its blood. He pulled his sword out and turned around, facing Azog. 

“ Kill it! ” The orc shouted, its companions shrieking in glee. 

.oOo.

Fili watched panicked as the small Mr. Boggins—the very one who they degraded every day, had single-handedly saved his uncle’s life. He managed to climb up, pulling Kili and Uncle Dwalin up with him. They charged into the fray, taking down the orcs who had provided an audience for Azog. 

.oOo.

Beijar’s head grew fuzzy as the others joined in the battle. 

“They must be here to save you,” he whispered quietly to the unconscious Dwarf behind him. 

He raised his sword and charged forward, forgetting that in the present moment he was not only injured, but also a Hobbit. The white warg charged at the same time, ramming into Baijar and knocking him aside, jarring his tiny, broken body. He looked up at the sky as he awaited his death by way of mauling, just like his parents. The dark blue was interrupted by the full moon and the glow of the raging fire around them. Beijar was too hot. He felt as though he were sweating his brains out of his ears. 

.oOo.

Dwalin was surrounded. Fili and Kili were next to him looking all of 80 years old. All the other dwarrow that had made it up the treacherous tree and into the treacherous fight were now surrounded. It was looking bleak. Through the orcs, he could see his unmoving husband laying atop a rock embedded into the earth. By him, the halfling was laying similarly as the white warg and its rider approached. Dwalin selfishly hoped the white warg would be distracted by its halfling meal long enough for him to fight over and save Thorin. 

.oOo.

Fili was weary. He had been fighting and running for too long with no sleep and it was showing in the way he fought. He had slashes all in his fur coat and he was growing sluggish. He saw the same in Kili and hoped that something would intervene and save them from this seemingly endless fight. And, as if Mahal heard his plea, he spotted great eagles in the distance. The great birds picked up the wargs and dropped them and their riders off the cliff. However, when the eagles started picking up the dwarrow, he grew afraid. Then he saw the eagles carefully fly off with his companions, he allowed himself to be picked up and dropped onto the back of another, grateful when he saw his uncle and brother safely in another eagle’s possession.

.o Oo.

The clouds look like snow from his vantage point on top of the large birds. Great fluffy snow banks and towering mountains in the distance, though not the mountain they were aiming for. No, their mountain was too far away to see. At other times, the snowy clouds seemed much more like an icy river, flowing in great chunks of various shades of white and grey. The expanse of blue sky above them was marvelous and clear with the exception of a smattering of wispy clouds.

A break in the clouds revealed a hazy winding river, it’s path not clear nor did he know where it started or led, which sea it led to, which towns and settlements it passed through.

He bit a sore on the inside of his lip as the sun rose in the sky. His legs hurt from not moving. He lost the feeling in his injured fingers, but his palm still felt as though it were under the brunt of the bright flames from the pinecones. 

He sat for a while, looking at the burnt flesh on his left hand, coming to terms with the inevitable scarring. He was thrown from his inspection when the great flying beast he was on shrieked and dove suddenly. He had taken a short moment looking at his surroundings before they banked again, throwing him from his admiration of the sprawling clouds below. Where were the eagles taking them? His ears popped as they got lower, the clouds rising to meet them.

Another break in the clouds revealed a great standing rock. Was this their destination? He did not know. The eagle had not consulted him before grabbing him in its great talons and taking off, effectively removing him from the battle ground they narrowly escaped from.

Beijar looked at the company, scattered about on the joining eagles. Many were bone tired and sleeping, their far-off willowy figures drifting where the wind pulled at their versatile, tired bodies.

.oOo.

Quite some time later, after the dawn had just begun to break, the eagles dropped them off at what can only be described as a carrock. The large monolith stood well above the valley below it. At this point, Beijar was getting quite sick and tired of the mountain atmosphere and the inescapable knowledge of the fact that at any moment you could fall to your death. When he was going to die, he would prefer it to not be in front of an audience. The sheer embarrassment he had felt when Hamfast had found him bleeding out from self inflicted cuts had scarred him emotionally more than the act itself. Perhaps this is why he didn’t try another attempt in the Shire, as he knew Hamfast cared too much for him to leave him to die peacefully on his own. 

“Uncle Thorin!” Fili shouted. His cries followed by the others.

Thorin was placed down gently from his position in the large eagle’s mighty and sharp talons. Gandalf rushed over to his unconscious form.

“Thorin! Thorin.” Beijar felt guilty for the momentary flash of envy. The others cared for Thorin so much, but had no regard for him, not even when it was him saving them. The king did not respond to the cries of his companions. Beijar ran over, moved by his guilt and worry. He let Thorin get hurt and then he felt jealous that the dwarves' injuries were garnering more of a reaction than his own. 

Gandalf kneeled next to the king and placed a hand on his noble brow. Dwalin sat on the other side of him, fingers working nervously at the fur coat pooling next to him. His silent vigil was something Beijar yearned for ever since the Fell Winter. 

Gandalf finished his nonsensical mutterings and the king gasped and sat up quickly, cringing at the faint pain that was no doubt lingering. 

“Dwalin? The Halfling?” he gasped and Beijar was surprised he was mentioned.

“I’m here, _Gultalut_ , I’m here.” Dwalin placed his forehead against Thorin’s in an uncharacteristic display of public affection. 

“It’s all right. Bilbo is here, as is Dwalin. They’re both quite safe,” Gandalf explained. Beijar was still surprised at his mention. 

The other dwarves, realizing Thorin was alright, swarm him and Beijar is pushed out of the circle of protective dwarves. He expected nothing less and went to the edge of the carrock. 

“I was wrong.” Beijar jumped at the suddenly close rumbling of the king. He spun around and faced the man who had torn down what little self esteem Hamfast had salvaged for him during his years alone. “I was wrong about the words I spoke earlier. Your merit in battle exceeds you, and for that I am grateful. Will you forgive me?” 

“I forgive you.” The words were out of his mouth faster than he could process the apology. Truthfully, he didn’t know how he felt about the apology. He wondered what the dwarves’ reactions would be if he didn’t accept Thorin’s apology and instead held onto a grudge. He shuddered as Thorin smiled brightly at him and clapped him on the shoulder in what was supposedly an action of good faith, but really just hurt. His large hand was stronger than the weak shoulders of the Hobbit race. 

The moment was forgotten about and the company of dwarves plus a wizard gazed at the far off, but now visible Lonely Mountain. Beijar stayed at the back of the group and wondered, not for the first time, if the decision he made was really the right one. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done with the first movie? 
> 
> I destroyed the one ring, sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Also, I was always mad that Bilbo never explained in the movies how he got out, he could've just not said the part with Gollum, he got Gandalf and the dwarves out here trying to figure out how he snuck past the goblins, when really dude just got body slammed into the depths. 
> 
> Also I watched a video on youtube called "Fear of Depths" and it really inspired me with the cave scene, I highly recommend it.
> 
> If you are binge reading this, here is a perfect break, get some water, maybe a snack, go to the bathroom...if it's 3am I suggest going to sleep ;)


	9. Tiger Mountain Peasant Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company and Bilbo have made their way down from the carrock, only to find trouble follows. Covers first part of the desolation of Smaug movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo banjo Mingo man-Joe
> 
> Anyhow, Ahoy cowboys. 
> 
> Long time no see. Another couple of chapters have been written and the story is so close to its end, I can almost taste it. However, that is of no concern right now as I have a nine chapter buffer that I intend on keeping. 
> 
> Anyhow, it's chill. I am writing this before I have edited the chapter, so I don't really remember most of what happened yet, but by the time I explain the chapter title, I will have. (As it turns out this chapter and the next are my favorites)
> 
> Here is a suggestion for a fic I've been reading. "Ripley and Toast's Most Excellent Adventure" by LittleLightLittleFire. It's very crack-y but really good. 
> 
> Song after "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" by Fleet Foxes (I was kind of at a loss for what song this chapter would go with so I went with a song that isn't bad, but isn't entirely my favorite (I like their melodies but the main singer seems kind of harsh sometimes and I usually prefer softer songs on the reg.))

.oOo.

Beijar—more commonly referred to as Bilbo Baggins, once more found himself at the mercy of the company. 

Crouched between a crop of jagged boulders, he made sure he was carefully hidden from the nearby orcs he had been sent out to spy for. It was safe to say that soon enough the orcs would be on their trail and Beijar’s stupid, uncooperative Hobbit body would ensure his demise to the twisted, filthy creatures. 

Turning back to report his findings to the company a handful of meters back, he spotted, from the corner of his eye a great beast. The beast closely resembled the new-age bear creatures that were as common as they were dangerous. The beast sniffed the air and turned its head, making direct eye contact with Beijar. The Haltija froze in his tracks and stared back, hoping the creature was not intent on making him its next meal. The bear nodded, and stunned, Beijar returned the nod before the beast turned towards the bounding orcs and roared. Beijar shivered. 

.oOo.

He stumbled back into camp, dazed with the sole purpose of reporting his strange findings. 

“How close is the pack?” Thorin asked, Dwalin close to him. The others crowded around him excitedly at the prospect of news, though some of the older members were disheartened, Dori especially. 

“Too close, couple of leagues, no more.” 

“Have the orcs picked up our scent?”

“Not yet, but they will do. We have another problem yet, beyond the orcs.”

“Did they see you? They saw you.” The vote of confidence from Gandalf was a near thing. 

“No, that’s not it,” he said indignantly, very much annoyed with their lack of listening. 

“Good, what did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse. Excellent burglar material.” And with that, his job was once more done and the others went to talk amongst themselves, paying no attention to the frantic Hobbit/Haltija. 

The dwarves talking was reaching the point of overwhelming and Beijar rather thought that his discovery was crucial and potentially threatening to the company—and yet they had no inclination to listen to him. It was times like this where he grew upset with his decision to leave the safety of the Shire. 

“Will you listen?!” A few dwarves looked over: Bifur, Ori, Fili, and Balin. “I’m trying to tell you there is something else out there!” That caught the attention of the rest of the group and the cacophony of their rising questions was making Beijar dizzy and panicked. 

“Does it have the likeness of a bear?” Gandalf asked nonsensically, guessing what it was exactly. 

“How did you know?” The others began shouting as Gandalf grumbled to himself quietly.

“He is our host.”

“Host?”

“What do you mean host?”

“Are we to stay with a bear? How could you?”

“Silence!” Thorin called, “Gandalf, is this beast you speak of, our host as you put it, a friend or foe?”

“Neither. He will either help us or kill us.”

“Then what choice do we have? Death by orcs, or a possibility of getting mauled by a bear.”

“Personally, I would rather the bear.” Bofur cut in, helpfully. 

Beijar felt rather ignored, pushed to the back of the group as the others debated whether they would prefer to be brutalized by the orcs hunting them, or the bear ripping them to shreds with his great maw. 

He, however, did not join in, couldn’t get the image of the bear nodding to him out of his head. Whatever the creature was, it was obviously intelligent—though Beijar could make neither head nor tail of the situation. His head was swimming with exhaustion and at this point, blood loss and pain. Any chance of rest would be more than welcomed by him. 

.oOo.

They were running again, always running. Beijar’s bare feet hurt as they slammed against the rocky surface of the ground, broken occasionally by patches of dried grass. Not only had the orcs caught on, but so too did the beast Beijar had just seen. 

The bear was even bigger than the Haltija had thought earlier. It was roaring ferociously as it ran, paws thumping on the ground loudly as it gained on them. He was happy to be in the middle of the group, not too far behind like Thorin and Balin, but not so far ahead as to be lost from the group like Bombur. 

It had not surprised him when Bombur turned out to be the fastest, many of the plumper Hobbits in the Shire were also known as the fastest in the land. 

Gandalf shouted something, though Beijar couldn’t hear it with the wind rushing in his ears. A house appeared in his sight, growing closer and closer and Gandalf sped up, motioning to the group that that was where they were to stay for at least the time being. 

They were ushered into the gate by different people at varying times and Beijar expended the very last measure of his strength in helping to push the door closed as the beast stuck its fat head through the door as they were trying to close it. They managed and locked it soundly as the beast first pounded into the door before Beijar could hear orcs getting gobbled up and then silence. 

His vision was swimming as he turned around, vertigo grabbing one side of his body before the other, making him sway side to side in the soft breeze that he felt on his face. 

“...Beorn, he’s a skin-changer. Sometimes he’s a huge black bear, sometimes he’s a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However, he is not over fond of dwarves.” Beijar caught the last of what Gandalf said about the Shape-shifter, wondering not for the first time if a similar thing was happening to him. 

“Come away from there! It’s not natural, none of it. It’s obvious, he’s under some dark spell.” Dori groused, yanking upon his younger brother’s arm. Obvious distaste spread across his face. 

“Don’t be a fool. He’s under no enchantment but his own. Alright now, get some sleep all of you. You’ll be safe here tonight. I hope.” 

Seeing this as an obvious dismissal, Beijar left the group and tottered towards the house, unhearing the various conversations starting around him. Going through the house, he disregarded everything around him as he made his way to the back where he found a pile of hay rather fitting for his size and collapsed into the straw. He flinched as injuries new and not-so-new twinged and pulled. Now that his adrenaline was wearing off, the hurt came back around ten fold, leaving him breathless and nearly unable to sleep. 

He lay there as the others curled up ‘round each other and promptly fell fast asleep. Their snores—which he had aforethought he had gotten used to, was now serving as a distraction in the sense that sleep eluded him even further than before. 

The sun had long set and the house was shrouded in shadow, the only light came from the dim moonlight shining through the windows. In front of the fireplace, Gandalf slept propped on a large chair with his pipe in his mouth, smoking away, and his hat tilted to provide cover for his face. 

The front door creaked open and an even larger man than Gandalf walked in. His footsteps were heavy but quiet in comparison to the deafening snores of the dwarves. The man stopped and looked around, making eye contact with Beijar. He crouched down and held out a finger, patting the Haltija gently on the head before his deep voice grumbled about little Hares staying up past their bedtimes. 

Beijar hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep with the deep baritone words rattling around his pain-addled mind, warm with the touch the stranger left him as he drifted into the realm of dreams. 

.oOo.

In the morning, Beijar woke up to the squeaking of mice hopping around his head in the hay. His sleep was pain filled but dreamless. He must have slept longer than he had thought as most of the dwarves save Oin were gathered around the large table standing next to the hearth, feasting on fresh made honey cakes and milk. 

Beijar stood slowly, ignoring the thoughts of his disarrayed appearance and made his way over to the table. The bench was taller than him and he had to jump before grabbing the edge and pulling himself up. His injured hands protested greatly. He scrambled up on the bench and discovered he could not reach the table unless he stood, and even then his eyes barely peaked above the edge. 

He had long cursed his stature as a Hobbit, but even an average Hobbit was taller than him. He had been malnourished for far too long and it reflected in his height. The shortest dwarf was over a foot taller than him and so his companions needn’t too much more height to put them over the edge of the table like he was struggling too. He almost needed to climb upon the table, but was mortified at the thought of being in the center of everyone’s attention; especially for something so inane as his height. 

He stood there quietly, largely unnoticed by the occupants of the table. The honey cakes were just out of his reach and no one offered to serve him a cup of milk. One part of him wanted someone to offer without him calling attention to it, another part didn’t want anyone to notice. 

Before he could act, their host swooped by and picked him up. He went limp as a deep rooted and previously unknown Hobbit instinct took over. 

“Now, we can’t have a little Hare like this go hungry. No. You are much too small for my bench. We will have to find you a proper seat.” 

Beijar went red in the face. The only person that had acted this familiarly with him had been Hamfast, and even then, touch between them had been few and far between; though that was of nobody’s fault. 

Being carried around tucked into the larger man’s arm, Beijar could feel everybody’s eyes on him. He remained silent as the man whose name he was not familiar with paraded him around in search for an adequate seat. Beijar just hoped he wouldn’t have to sit on the table. 

“Here we go. This is the perfect seat for a little Hare. To sit at the table with friends is a wonderous thing. It would be a shame to miss out.” The man’s chest rumbled with his words and Beijar was calmed out of his tumultuous thoughts. He paid no mind to the whisperings and chuckles of the dwarves. 

He was once more lifted and placed onto a small wooden box placed upon the bench; which, when he sat down, placed him at eye level with the dwarves. A man sized honey cake and a small but still man sized cup of milk was placed in front of him as he remained quiet. 

“Ah yes, perfect. Now the little Hare is in his right place, amongst his friends.” Beijar didn’t have the courage to protest the endearment of his companions. They were neither friendly nor his friends. 

“Thank you, sir.” He knew not what else to say. His face flushed in embarrassment at the poorly concealed laughter coming from the dwarves. 

Bifur and Dori had maintained a surprised expression, not having noticed he had been standing next to them before his new arrangement. Now, he was between Ori and Kili, the youngest members of their group. Before, he would’ve assumed that because they were the youngest, they would have been the meanest, but now he found that they were the friendliest and made no comments as his small hands had difficulty holding onto the honey cake and the cup of milk. 

.oOo.

Kili nudged his brother as Mr. Boggins had been lifted up by the large bear fellow they called host. The two looked and laughed at the obvious size difference but quickly stopped at the discomfort the small man exuded. Kili felt bad for him. 

They hadn’t noticed he was at the table until Mr. Beorn picked him up. He could’ve been there for an hour and they probably wouldn’t have noticed. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the baritone timbre of their host. 

“So you are the one they call Oakenshield. Tell me, why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?” Kili felt his brother stiffen up at the same time he did. Azog about to kill his uncle was burned into his eyelids and even before that, the Orc had terrorized the memories of his uncle. When he looked over, Thorin looked mad. 

“You know of Azog? How?”

“My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the Orcs came down from the north. The Defiler killed most of my family, but some he enslaved. Not for work, you understand, but for sport. Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.” Kili felt sick. He looked around and Mr. Boggins looked like he was about to lose the meager niblings of his breakfast. 

“There are others like you?” The small man next to him asked quietly, hopefully. It was something Kili didn’t understand. 

“Once, there were many.”

“And now? Is there anybody left?”

“Now there’s only one.” Hopelessness struck the faces of both the host and his ‘little Hare’, “You need to reach the mountain before the last days of autumn.”

“Before Durin’s Day falls, yes.” Gandalf said, making Kili jump as he did not notice the older man’s appearance. His hat was off and his pipe was smoking. 

“You are running out of time.” 

Kili didn’t want to hear that, time had been something they were racing against the moment they left. He didn’t think he would manage to wait a whole year for the next Durins Day. They wouldn’t go home, it would take too long to get there and then come back to make the next autumnal equinox. It was a disheartening thought. 

“Which is why we must go through Mirkwood.” Gandalf continued, unaware of Kili’s internal battle. 

“A darkness lies upon that forest, fell things creep beneath those trees. There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and The Necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there, except in great need.”

“We will take the Elven Road, their path is still safe.”

“Safe? The Wood Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They’re less wise and more dangerous. But it matters not.”

“What do you mean?” His uncle interrupted. 

“These lands are crawling with Orcs, their numbers are growing and you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive.” The man stood behind Mr. Boggins in what Kili would call a protective way. “I don’t like dwarves, they’re greedy and blind, blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own.” He glared at Mr. Dwalin as he pushed a mouse away from his cup. Kili saw nothing wrong with the act itself, but with Mr. Beorn’s speech he felt mildly ashamed by proxy. 

“But Orcs I hate more,” he continued. Kili watched as their host made eye contact with their uncle. “What do you need?”

.oOo.

Beijar had been content later that day. Thorin, Gandalf, and Beorn had started planning the next leg of their journey, and knowing he wouldn’t be needed nor wanted, he swiftly escaped his perch and ran outside. 

The garden that greeted him was something he could have never imagined. Tall sunflowers towered over him with large bees buzzing from large stalk of clover to large stalk of clover. Everything at the farm seemed to be of a large size and while that suited their host just fine, Beijar was feeling a little misplaced. He clearly did not belong in this oversized world and it was off putting. 

.oOo.

He must have dozed off in his hiding spot, because when he next awoke his injuries were causing him great discomfort. He groaned as he sat up, dreading the need to ask for someone to help him recover from foolhardy injuries he got whilst trying to keep up. 

A glance at his injured hands revealed abnormal swelling. They were almost two times larger than they had been that morning, and he could feel the beginnings of infection setting in. His face was hot and he could feel the gouge marks dripping hotly down his face. He was senseless. This was going to drag down the rest of the group because he couldn’t just man up and ask someone to look at it. They had all their supplies, surely if he had replenished them later, they would’ve allowed him use of some of their stores. 

He worried at the broken nail on his broken finger and tried to innocuously sneak inside. His efforts were interrupted by none other than Beorn. 

The tall man immediately saw him and scooped him up in his arms. Beijar couldn’t protest as he was busy trying not to jostle his pain filled hands. 

“Oh, Little Hare. What have you done?” The larger man cooed. Shame-faced, Beijar presented his swollen hands. “That looks awful, how long have you been injured, have none of your companions noticed?” He shook his head, flinched as the gouge wounds pulsed with pain and heat and shrunk deeper into the grasp of Beorn. 

“A few days, I think.” He hoped his leg wasn’t visible, but it was not as bad as his hands and face at present. 

“And what of your leg? Do not think I have not noticed your odd gait, Little Hare.”

“I don’t—a week? No, three weeks?” The great man sighed. 

“Then there’s nothing more that can be done, but at least allow me to help your poor little face and paws.” Beijar nodded dumbly and fell deeper into the embrace. 

When the wrappings were finished and ointment was applied, Beijar was immediately stuffed full of more honey cakes and milk before being put to a bed of straw and furs.

He fell asleep almost immediately.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Beorn so much, Next chapter will have more Beorn content, along with nice dwarves. 
> 
> Dwarves can be a little nice, as a treat.
> 
> I don't like how the movies didn't spend more time at Beorn's house :(
> 
> I've written 71,476 words for this fic so far :)


	10. Strange Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second day in Casa Beorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Bungalow lads,
> 
> Again, a chapter just for you. Sorry it's kinda late, but I've been really busy with just general life and stuff. I spent an entire day making a miniature doll house room for an exhibit that isn't even happening anymore, but for some reason I still have a deadline on. So now that it's over and done with, I'm able to relax and post another chapter. 
> 
> Additionally, I found myself rather sad thinking about the end of this fic. I've dedicated a year to writing it and it's kept me afloat for so long, I'll be sad when it's finished, but happy that it's done. I've started a new story that's like Modern Girl in Middle Earth, because I'm a sucker for those. I'm still working on it though so I'm not posting it until I'm at least halfway done writing it. 
> 
> I've added this story to a series, and I hope to have the Haltija history written and put up soon, but I can't guarantee when, but I will let you all know in the chapter notes when that does happen. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and sticking with me, it really does mean a lot when I get comments from y'all.
> 
> forgot to write this: Chapter title after Jessica Pratt's song Strange Melody in her album "On Your Own Love Again">

.oOo.

Back then, before the complications that came with living in the third age, the sky had been darker. The sun hadn’t yet been hung, and as a result, darkness blanketed everything. The only thing illuminating the darkness had been distant fires in the sky. 

The great fires in the sky had not been enough to truly brighten anything and so many Haltijan people relied on the fires on earth. 

Beijar remembered the time he had made his first lantern, a Haltija tradition that had started 2,000 years before the end of the Haltijans. His mother had been a little girl back then and had laid witness to the crafting of the very first lantern as it was her father that had first birthed the idea and was made chief for his outstanding contribution to the tribe of warriors. 

Their houses back then had been forged with tree roots of the most carefully cultivated trees, specifically created for the purpose of home-making. Those who weren’t warriors were in charge of growing the tall trees in a way that their roots would create domes large enough to make room for the 20ft tall beings. After the tree was grown to its 40 ft height, the cultivators were then tasked with charming and growing the surrounding plant life into furniture and walls, digging deeper into the earth to create more rooms that oftentimes connected to other family’s homes creating a warren of tunnels made entirely from the tree roots and grasses. 

Beijar’s own father had been one of the most well known and sought after growers, as his homes were always crafted in such a loving and artistic way that nobody was displeased with the end result. When he was younger, he had watched his father build many homes for new families. He had one day hoped to be like his father. As was tradition, every Haltija was required to go out and fight once to prove allegiance and appease their god in return for their continued existence. This being the case, Beijar and Beimyar had both been to the front lines and came back in their own ways and their own times. Beimyar was comfortable with his position as a cultivator, though Beijar loved battle, he preferred the company of his father and was content as a cultivator, even though he might have wanted more. 

His mother, on the other hand, had been a well-lauded warrior with several battles under her belt. In modern terms, one could call her a war general. She was well respected and had many suitors of all genders following her until she met Beimyar. Bihana was a force to be reckoned with: a chief’s daughter, a war general, someone who could provide for her family, fierce but loving. She was perfect. It was her idea to run away and turn into trees when the fires in the sky had started to rain down on them and too many were being lost in battles to justify fighting anymore. Their once numerous ranks and population had been reduced significantly. Where once they had surrounded a large area consisting of close to 2 million people, they had been cut down to one village of 1,500. 

Beijar can vividly remember the sight of fires raining down and the bloody ground as his people ran to an unknown danger. Trapped in a valley, they had no choice but to transform into the trees they were once charged with protecting. It was ironic, just as much as when they finally realized the god they had dedicated their lives to had abandoned them to a merciless death. 

.oOo.

Beijar woke up panting, ash, blood, and sulfur clung to the insides of his nose as he struggled to wake up all the way. His brow was sweaty and his clothes clung to him in a way most unpleasant. The bed of hay had managed to make its way into his once semi-tidy bun but had left it in a tangled untameable knot that he would most certainly be needing help to comb through later. He rested a clammy, mostly unbandaged hand upon his chest, willing his racing heart to slow for just a minute so he could get his wits about him. 

After no less than seven minutes, he was finally able to sit up and wake fully. His dream had been strife with newly returning memories of his last moments in his true form. 

He looked around to see if any of the dwarves had been awake to see his post-nightmare calming session. When it appeared that he was the only person awake, he slowly stood up, not willing to wake the others because he couldn’t remain quiet. 

He made his way from the back stables and into the large and ornate kitchen. A quick glance outside revealed to him that dawn had not yet broken and the sky was purple with the coming sun. Two sheep walked over to him from their spot in front of the hearth and nudged him. This startled Beijar greatly as the sheep were taller than him. Their dark faces mere inches above his own. He reached over and patted the one closest to him before the other gently took a part of his sleeve in its mouth and tugged gently on it. Not quite understanding what the sheep wanted, he followed them as they walked away. 

When at the end of their journey there was a bathroom, Beijar nearly burst into tears. He hadn’t had the chance to properly clean himself and wash his hair in over a month. He thanked the two sheep wetly before giving them each a pat and making his way into the bathroom, wondering at the lack of door, but grateful anyway seeing as he wouldn’t have been able to reach the handle. 

His next dilemma was caused by an uncomfortable size issue. Beijar was a relatively small man, however his host towered at nearly seven and a half feet tall. This was evident as the basin behind the privacy screen, in which he would have added water was too big for him to climb into without assistance in and out. He sighed to himself and was resigned to another few months of grime building up in the various crevices of his body. However, when he turned around to the entryway, there was someone there.

Thinking it was a dwarf looking to relieve himself, Beijar quickly excused himself, keeping his eyes down until he came face to face with Beorn's muscle laden shins. Craning his neck to make eye contact with his host, he discovered a smaller basin in his arms. 

“I have taken note of your small size, Little Hare. My tub will be much too big for someone of your stature. You may use this tub. It is much more fitting for you.” 

Shocked into silence, Beijar nodded dumbly and stepped aside, letting the large man into the bathroom to set the tub down behind the screen and fill it with a large jug of hot water.

“Thank you kindly Mr. Beorn. I can't express how much this means to me.”

“Make no mention of it Little Hare, it has caused me no trouble. You have been the nicest out of all your companions so far and this is my gratitude shown to you.” 

He got another pat on his head for his thanks and watched as their host walked off. He stripped his clothes and scar coverings off and let his hair down, hunting around for soaps and oils for his body and hair. 

He found his small wooden comb and was able to somewhat comb out the knots and hay from the thick, long, curly locks as he washed and oiled it with his broken-fingered hand, not willing to use the tender, burned hand. He washed the sweat and grime from his body and emptied the tub before refilling it with a new batch of warm water, taking care not to wet his bandages, or the ointment on his face too much. 

He sunk into the tub and felt his muscles slowly relax the longer he sat. He took a deep breath and felt better than he had in a long time. 

When he got out, his unbroken fingers had puckered and the sun had risen. The dwarves were now up and about wandering until breakfast was ready. With the new coming of day, came a new problem. He needed to dry and comb through his hair but with his injuries, it was going to be a difficult task. 

He was dressed in a small tunic that fit him rather like a dress and his linen pants were really intended to be worn under thicker pants, but Beijar felt light for the first time and couldn’t bring himself to put on dirty clothes. Later, he would have to ask if he could possibly wash his clothes before they left. 

With clothes now on, and his hair hanging down to his knees and dripping behind him, weighing him down, he left the bathroom. 

He didn’t know what he should do. Once more, he felt too shy, too embarrassed to ask for help, even though he really needed it. He plopped down on the ground in front of the fireplace and started his attempt at combing through his hair. Having long hair was an inconvenience on a journey like this, but the feeling of familiarity and thoughts of home he got when he let his hair down convinced him not to take to the shears. 

Now, however, with tears of frustration in his eyes as he yanked the comb painfully through his wet hair, he could care less about the memories of his parents, Hamfast, and Belle. 

He was so caught up in his frustration, he didn’t notice the pitying eyes of the dwarves around him, nor did he notice the approaching figure of Beorn. 

“Now, now, Little Hare. If you keep going like this, your shiny coat will be all gone. Here, sit down on your stool and I will brush it for you.” Taking the help for what it was, Beijar scrambled up the high stool that had been referenced and waited patiently as Beorn came back with an actual hair brush rather than a splintery wooden comb. The brush running gently against his scalp soothed him and helped him forget the nightmares that had plagued him the night before. The crackling of the fire and the soothing sound of his hair being brushed almost put him back to sleep. 

Before he knew it, the brushing was over and his hair—no longer a tangled mess, reached his ankles. It had been so long since he had let his hair down and he could feel the relief in his scalp. He sighed peacefully and remained on the stool placed by the fire as the dwarves finished their breakfast behind him. The scene was so domestic, it reminded Beijar of a simpler time before all this Hobbit nonsense. 

“That’s some awful long hair ye got, lad,” Bofur chirped happily, crumbs littering his beard. Beijar turned around, his face flushed as he realized the dwarves were now all staring at him. 

“Oh, well, thank you. I, um, I haven’t cut it in all my thirty and three years.” As a Hobbit had been implied, but seeing as they didn’t know him for anything else, they wouldn’t have gotten the implication. 

“Thirty and Three!” Gloin, Dwalin, Thorin, and Balin cried. 

“Ye are but a wee pebble!” Bofur exclaimed. 

“You think thirty and three is young? Well then how old are Ori and Kili?” he felt as though he were at least older than them, because they were young too, sometimes acting as though they were younger than him (though technically, he was older than all of them combined—Gandalf included).

“I’m 83, come last February,” Kili stated, a smug grin on his face.

“And I’m 85, since last November,” Ori finished. 

“Oh,” Beijar said, for what else could he say. He had been on his own since he was twenty and one, and according to Hobbits, their majority was thirty and three exactly. He stated as such and was taken aback by the uproar he caused. 

“Where are yer parents? Oh to be left alone at such an age. I couldn’t imagine!” Dori lamented, motherly instincts taking over. 

“Even my wee Gimli is older than you and he is still a pebble!” Gloin continued. 

Beijar was just glad they had focused on his age and not the scars on his neck and forearms that he had just realized were not covered anymore. 

“Oh erm, my parents were killed during the Fell Winter along with several others of the village.”

“What’s the Fell Winter? How come we’ve not heard of it?” Kili questioned. 

Beijar’s nose wrinkled at the memories, then quickly relaxed his face as it pulled on his injury. He didn’t want to say anything, but he might as well tell them. He didn’t have any standing in their eyes, so maybe they wouldn’t think him any more cowardly. 

“The Fell Winter happened Ten and two years ago when the Brandywine river froze over and allowed wolves, orcs, and wargs to enter the Shire. Before that the winter had been brutal and we had been stuck in our smials starving. Many a fauntling was lost to hunger. But when the wolves, orcs and wargs attacked, they broke into the homes and killed any they found. My parents and I along with a few others took up our arms and fought. I was the only survivor.” 

  
  


.oOo.

  
  


The room fell quiet as his voice entered the space, bringing along with it, feelings of hopelessness. Fili felt sorrow in his heart as he looked at the young Mr. Boggins—no, Mr. Baggins sitting in front of them and telling a story filled with anguish. He took notice of the thick bandages around his hands and the sticky, paste covered wounds in an arc around his eye. Fili, not for the first time, felt guilty at his—at  _ their _ treatment of the young boy in front of him. 

He didn’t look that old, and Fili knew not what it was that made him think that Mr. Baggins was older than him. He saw the same anguish and guilt on Kili’s face next to him. 

“Excuse me, dear boy. May I inquire as to the names of your parents?” Gandalf asked. 

The boy nodded, his long hair sparkling in the fire light as he moved. 

“My father was Bungo Baggins and my mother was Belladonna Took.” Fili looked over at the old man, trying to work out the look on his face. 

“I do not believe I have ever met them, though it must be because it has been so long since I’ve visited the Shire. That makes sense as to why you did not know me when we first met, though I rather wish the Thain had been more forthcoming regarding your situation. An oversight on my part, and for that I apologize.” 

“And when was it that you met if you do not mind me asking?” Balin asked amicably in that amicable advisor voice of his that he used in council rooms Fili had been made to sit in on occasion. 

“I met Gandalf the day I met all of you, he had gone to the Thain of the Shire for recommendations regarding a companion for an adventure and I was ‘highly regarded’ according to the Thain, though I rather believe it was a ploy.” Mr. Baggins said and Fili watched as the older members of the company glared daggers at the wizard. 

“What did you know of our arrival, or our journey prior to our meeting?” Dwalin asked, brow stern with concern. 

“Well, Mr. Dwalin, I knew not of your arrival except for Gandalf’s mumbling of an unknown party he referred to as the ‘others’ as he walked away the morning of our meeting.”

This answer got more grumbles from the company as Dwalin pulled Thorin aside and quietly argued with him. Fili did not know what the argument was about but he could feel that it was about Mr. Baggins. 

.oOo.

A pit of stone made its home in the belly of Balin. 

He, the advisor to the king, had made a fool of himself, acting childishly against an actual child who had nobody in the world but himself. 

The conversation ended and he watched as the young Mr. Baggins turned back to the hearth and dried out his long hair. He moved his chair closer to the boy and watched silently as he relaxed. 

“So, Mr. Baggins, if I may ask, what have you been doing these past few years? Surely you must have held a job seeing as you had no difficulty paying our travelling fee.”

“Oh, pay no mind Mr. Balin. You see, I continued my father's job of translating texts for foreign kingdoms. Particularly Gondor, and other kingdoms that lie far in the south. But I also rent out the land around my home.” 

Balin was taken aback. 

“Forgive me, but I did not know you were a scholar!” He exclaimed, shame faced. He hadn’t thought the boy capable of any intelligent thought after a few weeks on the road. He was now remembering the fierce intelligence he saw during their first meeting. And the meeting wasn’t known about beyond the odd mutterings of a senile wizard. He was thoroughly impressed by the lad, he said as much aloud to his hearth companion.

“Thank you, Mr. Balin, but I do not think myself a scholar like you or Ori. You two are truly on another level.”

“Nonsense! How many languages are you fluent in?” 

“Eight. Four Elven languages, four Mannish languages. I also know a bit of Khuzdul, but not enough for it to count.”

Balin sat on that knowledge. He did not know there were four elven languages, nor did he know any more than one mannish language. The boy would certainly be a commodity when dealing with other kingdoms. On the advisor side of his mind, he couldn’t wait to take back Erebor and use the lad as an ambassador, helping with trades and good relations. On the fatherly side of his mind however, he was saddened that the knowledge was too great for someone so young. Vast knowledge is not good for younglings, doesn’t allow them the freedom children are owed. 

He sighed and patted the boy’s shoulder closest to him. His heart grew more weary with the sight of deep scars on his neck, the bandages on his hands, the wounds on his hands, and the flinch that came of his actions. 

“Good lad.” The boy did not respond.

The dwarf stared into the dying fire. 

.oOo.

The boy had fallen asleep in front of the fire. His little head leaned forward to rest upon his chest. The dwarves, effectively ashamed for their actions, did not disturb the boy’s rest, and after quietly finishing their breakfasts, left the room to lounge in the warm late-summer weather. 

Dwalin had not often been allowed to enjoy the weather like this. He was always either fighting, or moving, or protecting. Never a moment for himself. He warned the younger dwarrow not to roam outside the rather large property and walked away by himself to find a quiet place to sharpen his weapons and smoke a bit of his pipe. Hidden away amongst the vegetation, behind a tool shed, Dwalin felt at peace for the first time in a long time. He loved his husband, but it had been so long since he had a moment alone, he needed a moment of peace. 

He lit his pipe. He brought out his knives and sword and axe and got to sharpening. He had to clean them first. There were still bits of goblin smeared across the various instruments. Not for the first time, he was grateful to have made it out of the goblin caves relatively unscathed, save for the short lad currently in front of the fire. Not only had they made it out relatively unscathed, they also got their supplies. He wouldn’t have been able to smoke his pipe, nor clean and sharpen his weapons if not for the quick thinking of the halfling. Not for the first time, Dwalin saw the benefits of travelling with their burglar.

It may have been a point of contention between him and his husband, but they were all better for taking the short man (boy) along with them. He took a deep breath, melting deeper into his dirt seat. He looked up at the sun peaking through the canopy of a nearby tree. The wind blew and for once, Dwalin could not smell sweat or blood carried along with it. The air smelled fresh, clean, untainted. If he wasn’t on this quest, he would stay here forever, just him and Thorin. 

Dwalin was so tired. He was tired of this travelling, of the fighting, of wondering when they would be getting more coin for necessities. He was tired of being poor and homeless. It may be their way of life, but no longer. He didn’t even entertain thoughts of them failing the quest. They couldn’t. They had made it too far, were too close to not make it. 

The contents of his pipe were now gone. The sun had moved from above him, to diagonal of him. He knocked the ash from the bowl and looked down at his weapons. They still weren't sharp. He had been too lost in his thoughts to finish the job. 

He refilled the bowl and lit it, puffing at the end before leaving it between his lips and got back to work sharpening his weapons. If the previous legs of the journey were any indication, they were still going to see a lot of use and when that happened, it was vital that they were sharp enough to cause damage. 

.oOo.

Their dinner that night was a simple stew made from spicy potatoes and fresh greens harvested from the large garden. The dwarves dug hungrily into their meal, chunks of fresh bread soaked in the stock shoved greedily into their hungry mouths. 

Beijar figured that if he wasn’t so used to not eating, he’d be much the same. As it was, he ate the soup slowly and carefully, taking great care in making sure he would not get any stomach pains from eating too fast. 

They would be leaving for the forest tomorrow. 

The thought scared Beijar. From the hurried conversation between the wizards all that time ago before Rivendell, and to the new name it had been deigned. Mirkwood, gloomy, murky. Nothing good will come of the forest. 

He reached the bottom of his bowl as the dwarves polished their second. With mulled wine and mead, their heads grew heavy and flushed. With several dwarves already passed out at the table, and Thorin and Dwalin whispering into each other’s ears, Beijar felt it best that he head to bed before he got roped into drinking. He was going to need all his strength tomorrow and starting the day off with a headache sounded like something he would want to avoid at all costs. 

So, he crawled alone into the back room and slipped into his bed of straw and furs. His belly was heavy with the warmth of the soup and it didn’t take long for him to drift off. 

.oOo.

It was the next morning and many of the dwarrow groaned as their heads ached and the morning sun burned into their eyes. 

Thorin stood next to Dwalin as Gandalf and Beorn walked over to them. They had finished preparing for their journey yesterday, and should be reaching the forest before the sun hit the middle of the sky. 

“Go now, while you have the light. Your hunters are not far behind,” Beorn said, voice rough. He still was not fond of them, and only showed any sort of fondness towards the halfling and Gandalf. 

The thought ran through his mind as he watched their host walk over to the boy and pick him up. The boy was still wrapped in bandages, and was much too gaunt. Thorin had a moment of worry that the forest might just kill their burglar before they got halfway through. The boy was sat on a small pony and Beorn walked back towards his fence. The giant would not be following them to the border of the woods. 

The rest of the company climbed atop their mounts and they were quickly off. 

.oOo.

It took them a couple of hours at most to reach the edge of the forest. 

The gaping entrance way was, at best, threatening. It seemed as though the sun, which had been so present for the first part of their journey to the woods, had now hidden behind thick, heavy clouds. Fog clung to the ground around the opening in the trees and made it look like the poison of the forest was trying to escape its wooded prison. 

“Here lies our path through Mirkwood.” Gandalf said, not sounding cheerful in the least. 

“No sign of the Orcs. We have luck on our side.” Oin continued, apparently not picking up the solemn tone of the wizard. 

“Set the ponies loose. Let them return to their master.” Gandalf sounded hurried, almost afraid. 

Beijar went up to the wizard and tugged on his robes, not liking the comparison in his mind he had made to a wanting child. 

“This forest feels sick, as if a disease lies upon it. Is there no way around?” 

Gandalf rested a large hand upon his shoulders and sighed. “Not unless we go two hundred miles north, or twice that distance…south.” Towards certain evil they had no time to battle.

Beijar walked first through the archway. It looked as though once it had been beautiful, like many things before the third age. A statue sat to the side of the antichamber-like opening after the archway. It had been covered by vines and sticks and weeds, making it nearly disappear into the foliage. Gandalf walked up close to him and swept the branches and vines aside, revealing a red eye, open and menacing. Beijar felt a shiver wrack his body as Gandalf jumped back. 

“The High Fells. So be it.” Beijar didn’t know what that meant, but he figured it had something to do with the evilness of the eye and the darkness radiating from the south east. The wizard turned around and practically ran to where Bofur and Bifur were releasing the horses. “Not my horse! I need it!”

He hopped on his horse and started before turning the steed around. “I’ll be waiting for you at the overlook, before the slopes of Erebor.” He grew closer to Thorin, his eyes wide and warning. “Keep the map and key safe. Do not enter that mountain without me.”

He turned back to the group.

“This is not the Greenwood of old, the very air of the forest is heavy with illusion that will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray. You must stay on the path, do not leave it. If you do, you’ll never find it again.” He started off once more, only looking back to reiterate his warning of not straying from the path. 

Thorin walked into the entrance way where Beijar stood unmoving “Come on, we must reach the mountain before the sun sets on Durin’s Day. Let’s go, we’ve but one chance to find the hidden door.”

Thorin started walking into the depths of the rapidly darkening forest. Beijar could see the physical barrier between the sickness and the pure air. The thick border of grey woods and clear air was jarring and Beijar felt nauseated. As such, he was the last one to submerge himself completely in the forest. 

It was loud. Yavannah, was it loud. The trees were shrieking as they slowly had the life drained from them in the poisonous soil. He reached up and covered his ears with his bandaged hands. His scars ached, his injuries burned. He didn’t know if he could go through with the journey as he almost went mad within the first two minutes of walking. 

He peeled his hands from his ears and held back tears. His lower lip wobbled and he couldn’t restrain the sob in his throat. He just hoped he was far back enough from the group that they couldn’t hear. Not that he could anyway. 

He kept walking forward, seeing no other choice but to slowly follow along.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirkwood, more like Workmood.


	11. Komodo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep diving into the filmy depths of Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, 
> 
> This is being posted kind of late in the day because I forgot what day it was. Hahaha. Anyway, it's still being posted on Monday, just not as early. 
> 
> I finally finished all of my classes and I did my online exhibit, so I no longer have any contractual obligations towards anything, allowing me to put more creative energy into anything I want. For instance, tomorrow I will be making my own cheese and perhaps finding out how to make my own pigments and dyes (I'm working up to being able to make my own paints). So that's what is going on with me. If you all want to rant in the comments about what you've been doing, or how you have been, I welcome this opportunity. 
> 
> Chapter title is after the song "Komodo" by Deradoorian in her album "The Expanding Flower Planet". This is a song I highly consider as one that should be playing as I decompose in the forest. Also, her other stuff is really good if you have the time to check it out.

.oOo.

They had almost lost the path several times. 

Fili watched as his Uncle almost led them out into the open forest. If not for Uncle Dwalin, they would have wandered endlessly until they inevitably starved in the rough wilds of this wretched woodland. 

His head was filled with cotton, the path was blurry. Kili swayed in front of him. 

It had been a couple of days since they had initially entered the forest, and now they had been swallowed up by it. They had to cut down their meals to twice a day and the meals were meager. So it was with a heavy head and an empty stomach that Fili walked on with his companions. 

When night had fallen at the end of the third day, Fili could say for certain that this forest was going to kill them all. They were having their dinner that night, huddled around where a campfire would be. When they had last tried lighting a campfire on their first night, bugs had swarmed them and got caught in their hair. Fili knew for a fact that Kili still had pieces of bug in his tangled hair. It was near pitch black as Bombur passed around pieces of bread and fruit leather. Fili was just grateful they had something good tasting for dinner. 

After dinner, Fili grabbed his rather thin blanket from his pack and sat down next to his brother, who was covering Bilbo with his blanket. It seemed as though the boy had fallen asleep without it, something that could result in him freezing to death overnight. 

Fili curled up, blanket pulled over his chin, and was grateful he did not have watch duty that night. 

.oOo.

Things were not looking much better in the morning.

Fili woke up with a shiver, but after moving around, his fur coat proved worth the coin it cost as he grew warmer. Kili was next to him, still wrapped in his blanket and shivering. He shook his brother’s shoulder and leaned back as the younger dwarf jumped up. 

“Get up, Ki, or you’ll miss breakfast and we’ll leave without you!”

“You wouldn’t!” The once sleepy dwarf was now wide awake and making his way toward Bombur to get his morning rations. Fili chuckled, a rare thing since they entered the forest, and turned back to the still sleeping figure of the Hobbit. His smile quickly dropped. 

The younger boy looked pale and was shivering so hard, his blanket had fallen off. Fili made his way over to the halfling and shook him gently. 

“Mr. Baggins? It’s morning time. You need to get up... Bilbo?” It took quite a while before the halfling woke up. His eyes were feverish, but his skin was cold to the touch. He sat up sluggishly, looking as though he were fixed to the strings of a negligent puppeteer. 

“Fili _? Where are we? It is so cold.” _ Fili felt a stone drop in his stomach as he couldn’t understand the confused ramblings of the Hobbit in front of him. 

“Uncle?” He called across the camp, where Thorin was sharing his meal with Uncle Dwalin. Thorin handed his bread to Dwalin before heading over with a serious expression. “I think something is wrong with Bilbo. He was hard to rouse from sleep, and now he is speaking a language I do not know.”

Uncle Thorin’s eyes grew dark as he stepped closer to examine Bilbo. Fili brought a nervous hand to his mustache and messed with the heavy bead at the end. 

“Bilbo, can you understand me?” Bilbo had returned to lying down, his eyes staring up at the canopy of the trees. He rolled his head to the side to look at the company. 

“ _ It hurts. Everything hurts. Why are we here? It’s so loud. _ ” His voice was weak and his words were foreign. 

Fili could see the momentary panic in Thorin’s eyes. 

“Uncle?” He asked quietly when Thorin didn’t move. 

“Balin!” Thorin called. “Come over here and see if you can understand the Halfling.”

“The lad knows many languages, aye, possibly more than me, but I can try, see if the one he is speaking is one I am privy to.”

He kneeled closer to the lad, who was now squirming in obvious discomfort. 

“Balin _. It hurts! _ ” He cried. “ _ Please, help me! They are so loud! They are dying! Do something! _ ”

His cries were haunting. Never before had Fili heard a language like it. It was smoother than the odd jingling of the elves’ language. It was smoother than the rivers, and yet his pleas were striking, displaced, horrifying. 

Balin laid a palm upon the ailing boy’s forehead and jumped back. 

“The wee lad’s burning! I cannae understand him, but I know when someone is hurting.” He turned back to them. “Do ye know if Oin has anymore of his supplies, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to treat him here ‘fore he gets any worse. Good thing it looks like the cuts on his face aren’t infected, or we’d be in a right bit of trouble, more so than afore.” 

At this point, Kili had grasped on to the back of Fili’s coat and was watching the ordeal silently, as was the rest of the company. Bilbo was still crying out weakly in his unknown language. It broke Fili’s heart to see him this way. He may not have known him that long, and only recently had he realized the error of his ways and extended his friendship to the lad, but he still couldn’t stand to see him so sickly. 

“We have no choice but to treat him now. Oin, do you know what’s wrong?” Thorin called, his voice was rough in his command. Fili recognized this voice. It was the tone his uncle took when he had to put his emotions behind a locked door so he could maintain control. 

Now it was Oin’s turn to examine Bilbo. The company waited with bated breath as he went about examining the lads previous injuries and his eyes and ears and head. At some points the old healer winced, particularly when looking under the bandage on his left hand. When it seemed he had finished his assessment, he turned towards the dwarrow who were waiting rather impatiently to find out what had befallen their youngest member. 

“A fever, that’s what’s making the wee Hobbit sick. Dinnae know what’s causing it, but his heart will grow weaker the longer it goes unchecked.”

“What can we do to help him now?”

“Keep him hydrated. One a’ ye will need to carry him, he is a mite too weak to stand up right now.” 

“I volunteer to carry him.” Fili said, stepping forward. “If his burden is too much for me to bear, I imagine someone will take over for me.” Kili nodded. 

“I offer to help Fili.” 

“Everyone pack up. Kili, you will pack up Mr. Baggins’ and your brother’s stuff.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

.o Oo.

And so it came that Fili was to carry Bilbo until he recovered enough to walk on his own. 

Fili, however, knew that his friend’s condition was not going to grow any better. With each passing day, Bilbo’s fever maintained its tenacity. Not water, nor herbs would help him. The chill of the forest leached away his body heat and replaced it with a seemingly permanent chill as the smaller man shivered all of the time. Even when he was wrapped up in Fili’s fur coat, he was a pale, shivering mess. His long hair had almost come out of the once tidy bun and the stray hairs were plastered to his sweaty forehead. 

Every night for the next four nights, Oin would dutifly sponge his face with as much water as they could afford—which was not a lot—and then change the bandages. Bofur and Nori would sit on either side of him afterwards, as they ran the hottest out of all the dwarrow and could shield the sick Hobbit from the chill. 

One thing that didn’t change was the pitiful creature’s cries. Every few hours, he would start crying and speaking in that peculiar language of his. Fili steadfastly ignored the mumblings when the halfling was on his back, but it haunted him nonetheless. 

He could tell that the halfling’s condition was affecting the rest of the company. Many members grew mad with lack of sleep, others looked disheartened. It was an unspoken realization on the eve of the second night that Bilbo was not going to live through the forest. The fever now presented another challenge beyond the weakening of his heart—the ability to fry his brain, and there was no telling when this would come to pass. There was nothing they could do as they traipsed around further and further into the festering woods. 

.oOo.

They had reached a river. 

Gandalf had warned them of the water that ran through the black river. It could put anything to sleep. Thorin was half tempted to dunk the Hobbit into the river just for some reprieve from the sick thing’s suffering. A boat was docked near the fallen bridge, small enough that it wouldn’t carry every one, but it appeared sturdy enough to make the necessary trips. 

“Fili, you take Mr. Baggins and cross first with Ori.” He ordered as his nephew hiked the sick halfling further up his back. He received a nod in turn and watched silently as they boarded. Ori produced an oar from the bottom of the vessel and they were off. Thorin could not see the other side of the shore, but when the boat came back empty, he assumed they made it over alright. 

The next group to go was Bofur, Oin, and Gloin. Then it was Balin, Kili, and Nori. Then Dori, Bifur, and Bombur. And finally Thorin and Dwalin. 

The moment Thorin stepped off of the boat, the vessel sunk into the inky black depths of the water below. The current lapped lazily against the shore and Thorin hurriedly moved his booted feet out of the way. If there was even a chance of falling in, he was not going to take it. He had already survived the almost certain death of the boat ride, and now his company was safely across. Except, they weren’t.

“Where is Fili and the halfling? Where did they go?” His voice was loud, and it echoed around the forest unnaturally, drawing attention to their check point. However, in light of the recent disappearance, the others were not so worried about that as they were the missing members of the company. 

Thorin watched as everyone kicked into gear and started looking for the two through the dense fog that had permeated the forest after the second day. Kili seemed the most worried as he had always been attached to his older brother. 

It was not but two minutes later when the company found them. Fili was crouched with the Hobbit on his back, staring intently into the eyes of a pure white ram as the halfling spoke to it in his pain filled mumblings in a different language. The situation had changed however, when Thorin noticed that it seemed the halfling was actually communicating with the ram, and not just rambling the thoughts of a man half mad with sickness. 

The group watched on in silence, entranced by the scene in front of them. What was this madness? Fili had not moved from his crouched position. Thorin could only watch as his nephew’s knees threatened to buckle. He took a step forward, stepping on a branch. 

This time, the echo that rang around the forest and through the trees was enough to break the feverish conversation between the Hobbit and the ram. Fili’s knees buckled, sending him and the sick halfling toppling onto the ground, and the ram jumped and sped off. No one tried to go after it or shoot at it. Briefly, Thorin wondered if that was perhaps the last chance they would get to catch some fresh meat. Their food stores were running low and they would not make it another week lost in the forest. It was killing Bilbo, and now it was threatening Fili. 

It was with these thoughts in his mind, that he stood there and watched Kili first pick up his brother and dust him off before picking up the Hobbit and shifting him onto his back. A silent agreement was made between the company that they would continue on, the only change being that Kili was now going to carry the sick Hobbit. 

The scene with the ram was left undiscussed, if only for the sake of their sanity. 

.oOo.

It was three days later that things had truly turned for the worse. 

Dwalin stayed silent for the most part, only talking when he noticed Thorin starting to head off of the path without realizing it. However, the air was getting to him. His vision was blurring and he grew dazed at times, only snapping out of the trance when he caught sight of Kili holding the rapidly fading Bilbo. 

At night, he was the one who sat with Oin and helped the sick boy drink water. He would also whisper small assurances to the boy as he whimpered and thrashed and begged in an unknown tongue. If anybody noticed this, though, they didn’t mention it. 

When the third morning after the river struck, Dwalin could feel something in the air shift. He didn’t notice the shift immediately, waking up slowly in Thorin’s embrace. But the moment it registered, he knew something was wrong. He jumped up, looking in every direction for danger. Then he noticed. 

Bilbo’s breathing had turned to wheezes in the night. His skin was no longer the golden complexion it was at the beginning of the journey, but now ashy and grey. He was clammy, cold and soaked with sweat. Nori and Bofur had moved in their sleep, leaving the small creature to defend against the wind himself with naught more than a thin blanket. Dwalin wasted no time picking up the boy and carrying him over to a dozing Oin. 

“Oin.” His voice managed to rouse not only the old healer, but most of the company. “Bilbo’s condition has worsened. You need to check him over. I fear he will last no longer than a handful of days at most.” He kneeled, the halfling still cradled in his arms. 

“Will he wake?” the healer asked, getting some of the herbs from his pack. Dwalin gently roused the boy, asking him to rise. Nothing became of it though, and he reported his findings to Oin immediately, concern and worry growing more and more as the old dwarf examined the boy. 

He shook his head in sorrow. 

“I’m ‘fraid at this point, he has less than a handful a days. He’d be lucky to have three. I fear this Mahal-damned forest is draining him faster than we can make progress through it. At this point, all we can ask for is a miracle.”

The surrounding dwarrow let out cries of sorrow. 

It seemed cruel, Dwalin thought. They had finally started to understand their smaller, foreign companion and now he was to die without really understanding he had been accepted. Dwalin knew the lad had tried hard, harder than anyone, to be accepted by their cruel company and not present as a burden upon the group. 

Kili stepped forward, ready to carry Bilbo for the day, but Dwalin found he could not let go of the sick boy. He was too light in his arms, was practically swallowed in the blankets he was wrapped in, almost like a wee child of man, a bairn. 

Dwalin stood up and did not meet his husband’s eyes. 

A small part of him resented Thorin for steadfastly ignoring and degrading the Hobbit for so long. A bigger part, however, blamed himself for not arguing about it, for not trying hard enough to plead a case for the young halfling who was now slowly dying in his arms from an illness unknown. 

They continued onwards, deeper into the forest, and probably nowhere near their goal. 

.oOo.

Balin was the first one to hear the clicking. 

It was quiet at first, hardly noticeable except for the fact that he had been accustomed to listen to the crude mumblings of nobles during council meetings when they did not get something their way. 

He hushed everyone and they stopped, looking at him. The clicking grew louder and closer. Now, they all heard and they drew their weapons. 

Balin looked around and watched nervously as his brother set the sick Mr. Baggins down between safe tree roots that nearly hid the boy. Then his brother brought out his two axes, standing defensively in front of Mr. Baggins. Balin smiled briefly at the clear display of protectiveness before his face grew somber once more.

They were only in their battle positions for a few seconds before the first adversary was spotted coming from above. A spider the size of a large warg made its way through the canopy of trees, descending upon the company, no doubt hungry for the blood and flesh of any race. Kili released an arrow that made its mark through the spider’s head. Its shrieks as it died were near ear piercing and Balin looked towards Mr. Baggins again. He didn’t know if he felt relieved or more worried that the boy had not been roused by the noise. 

His thoughts were swiftly quelled as more spiders came crawling out from their hiding spots. Bifur took out the next two with his large boar spear. Ori took out some with his throwing rocks. All the dwarves were fighting, Balin included, weakened as they were by lack of resource. 

It was at one point, however, that Balin noticed there were more spiders than the company could fight. Bombur, Ori, Oin, and Kili were being overrun, crowded by the beasts faster than they could kill them. He once more looked in the direction where Bilbo was being hidden. He felt insurmountable relief as the boy was resting undisturbed, though Dwalin had been forced farther away than Balin was comfortable with. He sent a quick thankful prayer to Mahal that the spiders were not intelligent enough to discern they were hiding another company member. 

The fight went on and the dwarrow grew exhausted. Their fighting form grew lazier and less formed as the battle drew on longer. 

Balin was parrying with a spider when out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement. An arrow decommissioned the spider he was fighting and the great beast fell atop him. He got out from under the creature and watched as one by one the spiders were taken out by what he recognized as elven arrows. 

This could be interpreted as good news and bad news. Good news, it seemed they were not too far away from the end of the forest. Bad news, they were now in the company of notoriously hostile woodland elves. Balin sighed and made his way through the spider carcasses to Bilbo’s hiding spot. He retrieved the boy from amongst the dead fallen leaves and frowned at how light the boy was. No wonder Fili was able to carry the boy for so long. 

Dwalin came over to him and they shared a look. Neither of them knew how this interaction with the elves would pan out, especially with Thorin and in present circumstances. 

“As much as I love him, Balin, I know he can be rather hard headed when it comes to elves. These elves especially, not that I blame him.” Balin sighed again. 

“I know all too well, brother. I don’t like these elves as much as any dwarf, but in this instance we need this to be as smooth as possible.”

Dwalin looked down at Bilbo.

“Much too light, he is.” Balin nodded. Noting how a conversation that had been long overdue was now taking place in the most inopportune of moments. “I can’t agree with the way Thorin handled things earlier in the quest. My heart is too heavy with guilt. I don’t know if I can forgive him for this.” Balin shifted the boy in his arms so one was free. He patted his brother on the shoulder and left it resting there. 

“This is something you need to talk with him about. I may be married myself, but I am old, and Kiluk is too. We know there is no time for fighting when we have so little time left with each other. You and Thorin are much too young for resentment to build without going unchecked. After we get out of this mess with the elves, I suggest you both sit down and talk, Mahal knows it’s been too long for that.” Dwalin shot his brother a grateful look and then squared his shoulders as the elves finally walked out of their hiding spots in the trees. 

“Well brother, I’ll see you on the other side. You want me to take him?” Dwalin asked, nodding towards the sick boy in his arms. 

“His burden is not much, I can carry him. Good luck brother, I pray to Mahal we make it out okay.” Another nod of acknowledgement and then Dwalin was off, standing at his place next to his One, and Balin’s king. 

“Do not think I won’t kill you, Dwarf. It would be my pleasure.” One of the elves said, arrow drawn on Gloin who was doing his best to glare the elf to death. “Search them!” The elf ordered. Balin figured this elf must be the leader of their unit. He took Gloin’s beloved locket. 

“Hey, give it back! Tha’s private!” Gloin growled. 

“Who is this? Your brother?” the elf asked. Balin was affronted by the question, he couldn’t imagine how Gloin felt. 

“Tha’s my wife!” 

“And what is this horrid creature? A Goblin Mutant?” 

“Tha’s my wee lad, Gimli!”

Balin watched, almost invisibly as the company’s weapons were taken by the elves. He almost smiled at the way the elf grew more and more surprised as he found more and more knives tucked away on Fili. 

“ _ Are all of the spiders dead? _ ” The head elf asked the red haired elf that had saved Kili. 

“ _ Yes, but more will come. They’re growing bolder. _ ” One of the elves handed the leader elf Thorin’s sword, and when Balin looked in his direction he looked positively murderous.

“ _ This is an ancient Elvish blade. Forged by my kin. _ ” The elf looked at Thorin “Where did you get this blade?” The elf’s tone was hostile and accusing and in his head, Balin knew he could do naught but close his eyes as Thorin was no doubt going to respond to that hostility with some of his own. 

“It was given to me.” The elf pointed the sword at Thorin, and Dwalin stepped closer in warning. 

“Not just a thief but a liar as well.” The sword was resheathed and Balin let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. It was as if his exhale was heard by the elf, as the blonde man walked over to him. 

“What have you there in your arms, Dwarf?” 

Balin pondered his response quickly, deciding the best course of action. 

“A sick child of man. We found him a few days in the forest. He is sick and our healer fears he will leave our world soon if we can’t get him proper help.” The elf squinted at him before examining Bilbo closer. 

“And what of these bandages on his face?”

“An injury he had before we found him. We bandaged and treated him to the best of our ability with our limited supplies.” The lies were flowing smoothly from his tongue after long years of lying to nobles and in council meetings. 

“Very well, we will have a healer examine the child.  _ Tauriel, come take the child from this dwarf. I don’t trust them. _ ” 

The red headed elf came forward and took Bilbo from his arms. The leader started marching them away from the dead corpses of the spiders.

.oOo.

Kili was scared shitless. 

The elves had just saved them from the spiders, and a really pretty red haired elf killed one on top of him. And now they were being marched single file through the forest, Elves posted in front of and behind the group. 

Kili looked nervously around before his brother tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Kili felt his shoulders drop in relief. Fili was right behind him. But where was Bilbo? He looked around panicked once more, before he saw a peak of the loose and disarrayed curls in the red headed elf’s arms. 

They quickly came upon a bridge that led to a highly ornate and tall door. Kili recognized some of the architectural themes from their brief stay at Rivendell. He almost wished he had a chance to closer examine the bridge and archway as they were beautiful in their construction. He looked quickly at his uncle and quickly remedied his thoughts. The architecture was  _ not _ beautiful, because an elf made it. 

He hated thinking that way, however. He wanted to relish in the rich culture of others and learn more about the world. Sometimes, when he was alone, he wondered if he would ever be allowed to explore and bring back ideas from other kingdoms that could aid his own. 

His thoughts were interrupted as they walked through the labyrinthine walkways. He noticed that some were suspended bridges, others were more like the hallways they saw at Rivendell. What didn’t escape his notice, however, was the fact that they were going downwards. He looked around, desperately trying to remember some sort of landmark so that they could get out again. 

It was in this landmark search, that he saw the red headed elf take Bilbo somewhere else. Kili was afraid for the Hobbit. At this point, the halfling looked dead. Kili truly did not know if Bilbo would make it out of the castle dead or alive, and he hoped for Bilbo’s sake that he did make it. 

He nudged Fili slowly, trying not to earn the gaze of their captors. 

“They’ve taken Bilbo, what do you think they are going to do?”

“I heard Balin tell the blonde poncy elf earlier that we only just met him, but he is sick. That should ensure he is taken to the healers. At least I hope, no telling with elves, especially these elves.”

“What do you think Uncle Thorin will do?” 

“Probably argue with the king elf, if I’m being honest.”

“Ugh, he is going to get us locked up!”

Fili looked up and from the look on his face, whatever was in front of them was not good. 

“It’s a little late for that, Ki.” 

They were in the dungeons. They were being locked up and they were never going to be getting out again. Tears stubbornly sprouted up in his eyes and Kili had to blink really hard and swallow the knot in his throat so that he didn’t cry in front of all the company and the elves. There would be plenty of time for crying when he was left to die in a prison cell. 

They were placed individually in cells where they couldn’t see each other. 

“This is not the end of it! Do you hear me?!” Dwalin called as Kili heard the heavy tumble of the lock of the cell he was in. 

“ **Let us out of here!** ” Bifur roared as he too was locked in. 

Kili did not say anything as he was locked away, too afraid that whatever he would say would result in the dam bursting and he would start crying loudly. 

He sat there, trying to restrain his tears and panic as the dwarves yelled in the background. They had started throwing themselves at the doors of their cells, trying to displace or possibly remove the deceptively thin bars. 

“Shit…again!” Gloin cursed. Another banging against the iron bars. 

“Leave it! There is no way out! This is no Orc dungeon. These are the Halls of the Woodland realm. No one leaves here but by the King’s consent.” Balin said, hopelessly and his tone hit Kili in the heart. He was never going to leave here, they would fail their quest, Erebor would be lost to them. He was never going to see his mother again!

Hot tears started dripping down his face as snot started running. It took all he had in him to not let out an audible sob. His head ached and his throat hurt. 

His uncle Thorin was taken from his cell to be brought before the king. Kili felt a modicum of hope, before it was crushed by the knowledge that uncle Thorin would yell at the king and get them imprisoned for life. But what of Bilbo? What if they chose to let him die? He was too young to die! Kili was too young to die! More tears came. 

Sometime later, Thorin was thrown back into his cell. 

“Did he offer you a deal?” Balin asked, hopeful. Kili’s emotions reflected his tone.

“He did. I told him he could go  **fuck himself** . Him and all his kin!”

“Well, that’s that then. The deal was our only hope.”

“It’s not our only hope.” 

“What does that mean?” Dwalin called from farther away.

“Bilbo is not imprisoned.”

“But he is too sick! We don’t even know if he survived the march here!” Bofur called, almost angry. Kili didn’t think he had ever heard Bofur angry. 

“Exactly, we do not know, meaning he could be better now, and have the opportunity to free us.”

Kili rather thought his uncle was going mad, but did not voice his opinions. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Must have been days as the guards had dropped food to his cell no less than eight times. It was long enough that he had run out of tears, and was now concentrating on the promise stone his mother gave him. Twisting it slowly in his hands, occasionally tossing it between hands like a hot coal, he grew so focused on the pattern in which he had achieved that he had not noticed the red haired elf from before standing and watching him. 

“The stone in your hand, what is it?” Kili jumped, almost dropping the stone. Her voice was beautiful, like a polished gem. 

“It is a talisman.” The elf looked confused. 

“A powerful spell lies upon it, if any but a dwarf reads the runes on this stone…they will be cursed!” He jumped up as he said the last words, holding the stone out to the elf, who jumped back in alarm. “Or not. Depending on whether you believe in that kind of thing. It’s just a token.”

He couldn’t help himself and started laughing at his prank, seeing the elf smile beautifully. 

“It’s a Rune Stone. My mother gave it to me so I’d remember my promise.”

“Promise?” Kili was going to tell her and he was not going to cry this time. 

“That I would come back to her. She worries. She thinks I’m reckless.”

“And are you reckless?”

“I don’t think so, my brother is though.” He tossed the stone, but failed to catch it and his heart dropped as it landed on the floor before skating through the bars of the cell. He was never going to get it back. One of the guards was going to walk by and throw it out. He could feel the tell tale signs that he was about to cry. The elf in front of him picked it up, and suddenly Kili didn’t want to talk to her anymore. 

“Sounds like quite the party up there?” And indeed it did as cheers rang out from somewhere above. 

“It is Mereth Nuin Giliath; The Feast of Starlight. All light is sacred to the Eldar, but to the Wood Elves, the best is the light of the stars.”

“I always thought it was a cold light, remote and far away.”

“It is unbridled, precious and pure, like sweet memories. Like your promise.” She handed him the stone, and Kili was unaware he had gotten so close to the bars. The look in the elf’s eyes was unlike any other he had seen. Her face was inches away from his through the bars.

“I have walked there sometimes, beyond the forest and up into the night. I have seen the world fall away and the white light forever fill the air.”

“I saw a fire moon once. It rose over the pass near Dunland. Huge! Red and gold it was, it filled the sky. We were an escort for some merchants from Ered Luin, they were trading in silverwork for furs. We took the Greenway south, keeping the mountain to our left, and then it appeared. This huge fire moon, lighting our path. I wish I could show you…” His gaze went back to the stone in his hands. Suddenly, a hand joined his. 

Her fingers were longer than his, but it made sense since she was an elf, graceful and tall, and he was a dwarf, stocky and short. 

“I’m Tauriel.”

“I’m Kili”

“I’m glad to have talked with you, Kili. I feel as though I can understand you better, understand your people in a way I had previously thought inconceivable.”

“I, too, am glad to meet you, Tauriel. I have not had the chance to talk in depth with an elf, as you likely know of the hatred borne between our races.”

“That I do.”

“Before you go, I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“How is he? The child we were captured with. Has his condition grown any better in the healing halls?”

“I do not know much, but I know that he is better than the condition you last saw him in. The healers believe he will live longer than a week now.”

Kili sighed in relief and Tauriel turned away, leaving almost as fast as she came, a sweet smile on her face.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, this story is already at 183 pages and is 74,477 words long.
> 
> Also, some discourse in the Thorin/Dwalin marriage? You better bet your bottom dollar. Fingers crossed it gets resolved   
>  ( ` " ')


	12. Here it Comes Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape from Mirkwood and entering Laketown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lads. 
> 
> It's real crying hours. I got rejected from several scholarships that I depended on to go to college in the fall, including specific ones that have to do with the niche I'm getting a bachelors degree in. So i'm dying... but on the brightside here is another chapter. I've been a little too busy to write lately, but I'm planning on writing at least two chapters today. Also, I finally know how I'm going to end this. 
> 
> This chapter was super fun to write, all of the subtly changed events and the laketown characters. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more next week! Love y'all.
> 
> Chapter title: "Here it Comes Again" by Cate Le Bon in her album "Reward".

.oOo.

He was sick. 

The aching in his head was endless and his dreams were more like visions, prophesying events of great destruction and death. His head was a mess. 

At the same time, his body was quite uncooperative. He felt too hot, and then too cold, nauseated and then hungry. His thirst was immense, and the dryness of his throat was a point of irritation for far longer than was pleasant. 

In summation, Beijar was not having a very good time. At times, he was certain he was back in Bag End with his mãe and paí as they nursed him back to health as they often did when he was a mere babe, before he hit his majority at 500 years. 

It was a long time, or maybe a short time later that his head cleared for what felt like the first time in years. 

He slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the light coming from somewhere unknown. Weren’t they in the dark forest? He was sitting in a bed, not his bedroll on the ground. He certainly was not outside any longer. He looked around, panicked. The bed was large, way to large for his liking. Were they in a Mannish village? He peered up at the ceiling and had to blink for fear of growing dizzy and nauseated. The ceiling was high and the architectural care and detail that went into the wooden support beams didn’t coincide with the previous assumption of it being a man-made dwelling. No, he was in the company of the elves, the wood elves, if he was correct. 

As soon as he came to this conclusion, he took a mental inventory and was rather unpleased to find that he was dressed in thin silk robes and leggings rather than his hearty travelling garb. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and Beijar felt grimy. He wanted to get out of these strange clothes, and into a cool bath, perhaps with an accompanying glass of water. He felt far too hot. 

He threw off the heavy, white blanket and tried to get himself near the edge of the bed so he could attempt to lower himself to the ground without too much trouble. His plan was swiftly interrupted by the presence of a regal, blonde elf. 

“Good morning, how are you doing?” The elf seemed rather cheerful. 

“ _ Who are you? _ ” He did not realize he was speaking Haljitar until it left his lips. The elf looked alarmed.

“I’m afraid I can’t understand you, little one. Do you know any Westron?”

“ _ I know  _ Westron _ , I don’t know why I can’t speak it! I know it! I swear! _ ”

His inability to speak anything but Haljitar was worrying and not only because nobody else could understand him. If any of the white council (yes, he did know about their little group) were to catch wind of this, it would spell a lot more than trouble for him. 

The elf seemed apologetic that he had gotten Beijar so worked up, he walked closer to the sick Hobbit and poured a glass of water before offering it to him. Beijar was grateful that the elf knew Beijar was parched. Once he slowly finished the glass, he handed it back to the elf and watched as he sat down in a chair near the large bed. 

“Alright, let us start from the beginning. Can you understand me? Nod if you can.” A nod. 

“Excellent. Now I suppose I need to introduce myself. I am Prince Legolas of Greenwood. What is your name, Little one?”

“Bilbo.” At least he could say his own damn name. 

“What were you doing in the forest? Did you lose your parents?” His parents? They had been dead for eleven years, what was he talking about? He looked down at himself in the large elven bed. He looked quite like a child, he thought about it for a minute. Where was the company? Why were they separated? He was sick, that was all he knew. He didn’t want anything bad to happen if he messed up, exposing a story already given. He would go along with the elf. He nodded his answer. 

Legolas grew a pensive look on his face. “Do you have any relatives?” Beijar shook his head. He did not. “Where are you from?”

“Shire.” 

“How old are you?”

“ _ Thirty-three. _ ”

Beijar was getting impatient. He felt awful still, sore and shaky. He wanted Legolas to leave so he could get up. He knew it was futile to say anything, but he wanted to ask where the dwarves were. A look must have made its way to his face, as the prince quickly said something about it.

“I’ll just leave you alone now, do you need anything?”

Beijar shook his head. The elf nodded in response, swiftly leaving Beijar alone to his own devices. 

Not knowing how long it had been since he was brought into the elven kingdom, he had to hope it wasn’t too long. If it had been more than two weeks, they were in trouble. As it was, they were running out of time. The Autumn Equinox was rapidly approaching and that spelled trouble for their company and their mission. 

He slipped off of the tall bed and crumpled on the floor. His legs were aching fiercely and after presumably not walking on them for so long, the muscles were stiff. He pushed himself up, relying heavily on the bed. His legs felt like that of a newborn deer. He took a second to breathe and his eyes were shut so hard spots had started to appear. When he opened them, the spots had momentarily stayed, rendering his vision black for longer than Beijar was comfortable with. His head swam as he took his first steps, but he was determined to find the dwarves. He could not fail them just because he was sick. He had done more for less. 

The door was rather tall, and it was a struggle reaching the door knob; the job requiring him to jump and latch on so his weight would turn the latch and the door would swing open. His next task was traversing the winding hallways to find the dwarves. 

The work was long and many times, Beijar had to tuck himself against the wall to fend off both dizziness and elven guards as they passed by. It had been longer than he would have liked to admit when he first heard about the dwarves. A passing elf, a guard, was bickering to himself about a surly dwarf, who threw his food at the guards partner in an attempt to escape. Beijar took his chance and took the path that the guard had just come from, going down several flights of stairs before entering what must have been the dungeons, for all that they were well lit and warm. 

He kept going, his legs hurting worse than ever. He could feel sweat dripping down his back and accumulating upon his brow. He must look worse than death. Occasionally, his eyes would grow heavy and would close without him realizing, only for him to stumble and trip. He needed to find the dwarves quickly before he finally fell and did not get up again, alerting the elves to his motives. He understood now that they weren’t here to help, even if they had nursed him. 

It was on one of these occasions that he tripped that he finally found one of the dwarves. 

“Dwalin.” He said, his voice weak with sickness. 

“Bilbo, lad. Where did you come from?”

“Dwalin _ , where are the others? I need to free you. _ ” Dwalin looked concerned and beckoned him over. He drifted over before leaning heavily upon the cold bars, grateful at the chill it provided. 

“You’re burning up! You should’ve stayed where you were. We would’ve found a way.”

“Dwalin,  _ I need to help you, we don’t have any time! _ ” He tilted his head back, letting his head rest upon the back of his neck as he looked at the high lock. He needed the keys. “ _ I’ll be back. _ ”

The keys weren’t hard to find. The guard was in an alcove not too far away, snoring heavily. Beijar grabbed them and made his way back to Dwalin. He glared up at the lock, hoping briefly it would lower itself so he could reach it. Dwalin watched him tentatively, ready to step in the moment Beijar could hurt himself. He wanted to laugh. He had almost killed himself, several times, a high up lock wasn’t going to do anything to him. He jumped, slipped, and landed on the floor. He jumped again, slipped again, landed again. Jumped, slipped, landed, jumped, slipped, landed. 

After the -nth time, he couldn’t find it in himself to get back up. 

“Bilbo?” Dwalin asked, pressing up against the bars to closer examine the fallen lad. 

“ _ I’m not an invalid! I can do it! _ ” Beijar said loudly, suddenly angry at his position. He struggled to get up, but made it there. He jumped up again, grabbing the bars, partially using Dwalin’s foot as a stool. Still, he could not make it. His head swam when he fell, disorienting him further. 

He grew frustrated, extending his arm until it hurt. He still couldn’t reach. Tears of anger bloomed in his eyes. 

“‘Haps you should give me the keys lad, I can do it from here.”

Beijar glared at him, but complied, stepping back and sitting down on the floor whilst he watched Dwalin do something in ten seconds that had taken him ten minutes and produced nothing but failure. “It’s okay lad, you tried your hardest. Do you want me to carry you?” Beijar grew very petulant, as he often did when he was younger and sick like this. He crossed his arms and scowled. Last time he wanted his mom to hold him, she had hurt him. He did not want to be hurt anymore, but he knew he could make it no further on his own as his tears turned from anger to frustration and pain. 

He hated not being able to talk properly, stuck in the native language that only he spoke. Dwalin stepped closer and picked him up. He went willingly as he lost the battle with his anger and felt it flicker away. Now he was crying because everything hurt and nothing in the world was fair. The large dwarf rubbed his back in a calming manner. Beijar hated being patronised. 

The dwarf carrying him was warm, and he smelt of mildew and dampness. Despite how gross it should be, Beijar wanted to crawl into the scent and live there, in a different world of mushrooms and good earth.

They made their way around, freeing the other dwarves. When they came upon Thorin’s cell, the dwarf king was baffled. 

“How?” Dwalin did not verbally respond to his question, but Beijar could feel the dwarf moving his head from where he had his head tucked into Dwalin’s shoulder. He looked up in time to see the warrior dwarf place his forehead against Thorin’s in a way that confused Beijar’s addled brain before Dwalin said something. 

“I sent Kili and Ori to scout a way out of these Mahal forsaken dungeons.”

“We have no choice to wait here then, Bofur, you’re our lookout, call out to us if you see any elves coming so we may hide.” 

It was a while later when Kili and Ori came running back. 

“We can’t get out through the front gate, but there is a way we can go, though it will not be very pleasant.” Ori started. 

“In the cellars, there are numerous empty barrels just waiting to be discarded into an underground river, if we can hide out in the barrels then we will be able to leave that way undetected.”

“Good job, Kili, Ori.” Thorin said, Beijar couldn’t determine what his tone of voice was. 

“Did you happen to find our packs or weapons?”

The packs! Beijar had found those in the goblin caves.

“ _ I found our packs, remember? They were in the Goblin Caves, but I got them back for you. I did that! You even thanked me for it, which was a first! _ ” The dwarves were startled by his outburst, a few even looked as though they did not notice him there, hanging limply in Dwalin’s arms as he lost himself more and more to the craze of the fever. This being the case, he did not see the resulting looks thrown his way, ranging from worried to confused.

“I’m afraid we couldn’t find them, Dwalin, but we could try looking again while we make our way there.” Ori said, cheerfully. 

“Lead the way then.”

.oOo.

They had started walking further into the dungeons, a seemingly odd place to keep a storeroom, but Dwalin rather thought the elves were not the brightest sort. Thorin was trailing behind Ori and Kili, determined to try and find their packs. 

“Dwalin.” The soft sound coming from the very sick Hobbit in his arms nearly startled him. 

“Yes?” 

“ _ Where are we going? _ ” And once more, Dwalin couldn’t understand the lad. The poor child must be so confused. Kili had said something earlier about the red haired elf telling him that Bilbo had been doing better, but obviously the boy had gotten worse again as a sweltering forehead dug into his collarbone. He winced and kept moving, the longer they stayed here, the more likely it would be to get caught. He carefully shushed the Hobbit and they continued on. 

“Fili.” Bilbo said next, his feverish gaze caught on the nearby dwarf. “ _ Did we find a way out? I need some air. It’s hard to breathe, it smells like rot. _ ” Dwalin couldn’t understand the boy, as was par for the course, but he couldn’t help but notice the lad’s breathing getting worse again. The blonde dwarf gave a concerned look to Dwalin, a look he himself mirrored. 

“The lad isn’t doing too well, whatever the elves had been doing has stopped working. Burning up, he is,” he whispered. Fili only nodded in response. 

They found an alcove with their belongings and Dwalin watched as Thorin took his bag too. He nodded in acknowledgement, making a note to thank him personally later. They continued walking, creeping through doorways and peering around corners. 

When they finally reached where Ori and Kili had said the storeroom was, the two went through the door alone, motioning for the others to follow as they looked around for any stray elves. When it was established the coast was clear, the rest flooded into the room, closing the door and locking it. Wouldn’t be any good if elves walked in on them escaping just to be captured again. 

On top of a large trapdoor, there lay stacks of barrels. They were empty, just as promised. Dwalin walked over to stand next to Thorin, who had taken to appraising the craftsmanship of the barrels. 

“Think they’ll hold?”

“Aye, they must. It is our lives that depend on it.” 

“What of the little one?”

“He can ride with another, if his barrel is lost he would not be able to be recovered in his current state.” 

“He can ride with me.”

“So it shall be.”

One by one, individual dwarves were aided in being sealed into the barrels. Dwalin rigged a piece of thin rope to the releasing lever. Thorin helped Dwalin into the barrel, placing the sick child into the barrel after him. He handed the rope to Thorin before nodding. Thorin would get into his own barrel, close the lid and then pull the rope, pulling the lever and releasing them into the crashing river below. 

Dwalin could feel the moment their barrel hit the water. The wood must have been sealed to prevent liquids from coming in and out as they stayed relatively dry. This did not change the whimpering noise the sick Bilbo had been making. In the darkness, Dwalin could do nothing more to reassure him besides rubbing his small back with his large hand. 

The barrel crashed through the rapids, hitting rocks and bobbing up and down, enough to make him nauseated. At some point, Dwalin could hear fighting going on outside of the barrel and dearly hoped none of his kin had unsealed their vessels. He would give anything to ensure the safety of his family, blood related or not. Bilbo had started talking fervently in his gibberish like language, the inflection of the words sounded like a chant. 

As time went on, he lost the sound of the fighting. More time had passed and the rocking of the barrel sent Bilbo to sleep. Dwalin felt bad for the boy. Finally, the barrel hit a shore and they were on solid ground. Bilbo was still unconscious and so Dwalin waited for another dwarrow to unseal the lid to the barrel they were encapsulated in. 

What couldn’t have been much more than minutes later, the lid came off to the sight of Bifur peering in. A hand was held out, and Dwalin took it, easing himself out with the help of the other dwarf and Bilbo safely held in his remaining arm. 

A quick glance informed him that they had all safely made it to the shore. 

“Anything behind us?” Thorin asked, clutching Balin close to him. A bleeding scratch dripping down his wet trousers. 

“Not that I can see, Thorin.” His brother responded, a worried look on his face. 

“I think we’ve outrun them.” Bofur stated, grin across his face, leaning heavily on an exhausted looking Bombur. 

“Not for long, we’ve lost the current.” Thorin replied darkely.

“Current? You expected us to be in those barrels all the way to Lake town?” Gloin cried.

“You’re almost half drowned!” Oin cried. “Let me look at your leg. What happened?”

Fili, Kili, and Ori, hearing that Thorin was injured, ran over from where they were talking. 

“Uncle!” 

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“An arrow, through the barrel. It must have been a stray from whatever battle was happening around us. If it had intention, we would all be full of holes.”

And indeed it seemed as though that arrow had been the lucky one. An elven arrow stuck through the side. It was not the only one. Arrows were wedged at angles in the barrel, orc and elven. Dwalin’s was the only one it seemed that was clean of scratch marks. How lucky. 

“It's only a flesh wound, but I wouldn’t suggest putting too much weight on it.” Oin stated, wrapping a relatively clean cloth ‘round his husband's bleeding leg. 

“How’s Bilbo?” Dori said, coming over to him. 

“Dinnae know. Been sleeping since halfway through the, er, barrel ride.”

“Has his fever broken at all?”

Dwalin placed his large palm against the gentle forehead of the child and tried to estimate the temperature. 

“It seems to have dropped some, not as hot as in the elven halls.”

“Everybody would be better outside of their halls.”

“I can attest to that,” Dwalin replied merrily. Dori laughed and clapped Dwalin’s shoulder. 

“If he gets too heavy, I can always carry him.”

“I’ll let you know, but for now, the lad’s too light to make it any job.”

“Need to put some meat on his bones next time we can get supplies. I will talk to Bombur about that, he always knows how much food is healthy for wee ones considering all of them he’s got.” And with that, the grey haired dwarf walked away. 

Dwalin moved to Thorin, who was currently pouting on a rock. He rested his elbow upon his husband’s head and sighed. 

“How ya holdin’ up?” Thorin’s frown grew more severe at the question. 

“We need to be moving. Who knows how long we spent down in that wretched creature’s dungeons. What if Durin’s day has already passed us and we can move no further? We would have wasted all of our efforts and almost killed Bilbo and our nephews for no reason.” Dwalin ran his fingers through Thorin’s long black hair slowly, attempting to calm down the upset man. 

“Be calm, we will find out if our efforts are for naught soon enough, right now, we do need to move. Some of those arrows were orc arrows. They will find us before too long and then we will be in bigger trouble than we have already found for ourselves.”

Thorin leaned into his hand and sighed. 

“I suppose you’re right. We need to find a barge going to Lake Town. That’s the only place within several knots that will take us in, if not grudgingly.”

He held out a hand and helped Thorin up, not mentioning how his husband’s eyes stared at the sick, sleeping child in his arms for a moment too long before they left. 

.oOo.

Fili watched from afar as Ori emptied out his boot full of water. 

A man came creeping behind him, his bow drawn in preparation for a kill. Fili had no time to shout a warning as the arrow was released and landed through a piece of wood held by none other than Dwalin, standing there with Bilbo still in his arms. He saw Kili from the corner of his eye grab a stone and aim, arm thrown back in anticipation. 

Before he could release the stone from his hold, the man shot a second arrow, knocking the stone from his little brother’s hand. 

“Do it again and you’re dead.” He called, drawing another arrow. 

“Excuse me, but um…you’re from Lake-town, if I’m not mistaken? That barge over there, it wouldn’t be available for hire by any chance?” Balin asked, ever the diplomat. They all followed the man as he grew closer to the barge.

“What business is it of yours? What makes you think I would take you, anyway?”

“Well, forgive me for saying, but those boots have seen better days, as has that coat.” He cleared his throat. “No doubt you have some mouths to feed. How many bairns?”

“A boy… and two girls.”

“And your wife, I imagine she’s a beauty?” The mention of another’s wife reminded Fili that Balin had a husband back home, Balin most likely missed him like crazy. Uncle Kiluk was a very nice man and Fili imagined him sitting down, back at home, worrying for all of them.

“Aye… she was.” Fili couldn’t mask his wince, but Balin could, though he did falter in his words. 

“I apologize, that was a personal question that I had no right to ask.”

“All is forgiven, you couldn’t have known.”

“We have a child ourselves, though the boy is very sick.” 

“How sick?”

“Dwalin?”

Uncle Dwalin came forward with a shivering Hobbit in his arms. 

“His fever has dropped a little, but in this chill, I fear he will get it back again.”

The man looked at Bilbo intensely, seemingly gauging whether or not it was worth it to help them. 

“I know where these barrels came from.” The man stated suddenly. “I don’t know what business you had with the elves, but I don’t think it ended well. No one enters Lake-town but by lead of the master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland realm. He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of king Thranduil.” He finished loading the last barrel upon his barge and stood in front of the vessel, seemingly lost. 

He sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. 

“You are going to need a smuggler.”

“And for that, we would pay double.”

Fili boarded the ship alongside his brother and Ori, keeping a close eye on both the bargeman and Bilbo. 

.oOo.

The barge had set off and the company set out to make themselves comfortable as the fog rolled in and the temperature dropped. 

Thorin, who was still wet, huddled next to Dwalin. As much as he himself was suffering from the chill, at least he had his fur coat still on him. Looking around, everybody had a coat except for one unconscious halfling curled up sick in his husband’s arms. He wanted to rest his coat on the child, but he could not risk freezing to death or getting sick. He was their king, their leader. He needed to be in top shape if they were to finish their journey and reclaim Erebor. 

He was lucky that the arrow had only just pierced the meat of his calf, leaving a small and manageable wound. He was even more lucky to find that no one else had been hurt or captured by the warring elves and orcs. It was a scary thought that they were that close to being found, that the orcs were that close to them. But they made it. And they were none worse for the wear. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Dwalin grasping his hand. Thorin leaned forward and placed his forehead against the other.

“I love you.”

“Mm, I love you too, fool.”

“What do you think LakeTown will bring us?”

“Not everything we will need, that is for sure. We must be thankful that we have made it this far with our packs and personal effects. We have this little one to thank for at least one of those occasions.”

“Aye. Do you believe he will get better?”

“We must hope for it. We will pray to Mahal for his recovery, and if it comes to the point where he dies, we must pray that Mahal will guide him safely into the afterlife.”

Dwalin closed his eyes at the thought of the boy dying. Thorin didn’t much like the thought either. He was the one that put the company together, he was the one that allowed Bilbo to join them. He had mistakenly trusted that Gandalf knew the Hobbit and had gone so far as to insult the boy to his face. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if someone were to belittle his nephews, and they were of age. This boy was only thirty three, nothing more than a child, truly. 

He was once more drawn out of his thoughts, but this time by the bargeman clearing his throat. 

“Forgive me, but your companion earlier told me you had a sick child with you, is this true?”

“And what business is it of yours?”

The bargeman held his hands up placatingly.

“I simply wished to help in his recovery, whatever I can do.”

“Have you a blanket? I fear he will catch his death in this weather. I fear we are all ill prepared for the chill the lake brings.”

“Aye…” 

.oOo.

Bard looked at the two dwarves before he looked at the ill child in their arms. The boy did not look like a dwarf, but he too did not look like any child of man he had ever seen. Not with his dark skin only seen in foreigners and his roundly-pointed ears. He looked deathly ill. His face taking on a grey tone with strands of hair escaping its binding and pasting itself onto his bandaged face. 

He watched the dwarves say they had no blanket for the sick boy, while they themselves sat in fur lined coats. He would have given his coat to any of his children if they were in the same position, even if it meant he was freezing, he would still do it. Nonetheless, he would not let the boy suffer for the idiocy of dwarves and fetched a blanket. He walked back over and draped the blanket over the boy’s shivering figure and noticed the heavily bandaged hands and his bare feet. Did the dwarves truly not care for him? He quickly grew disgusted. 

He tuned out the awe filled and enthusiastic exclamations at the sight of the lonely mountain. No good would come from there, not with the dragon in it. He walked over to the dwarves.

“The money, quick. Give it to me.” The dark headed, leader dwarf stood up tall.

“We will pay you when we get our provisions and are safely in town, but not before.”

“If you value your freedom, you’ll do as I say. There are guards ahead.” He gestured towards the barrels. “Get in, you won’t be found.” He gestured for them to quickly leap into the empty vessels, but held his hand out towards the dwarf with the sick boy. 

“What do you want?”

“The boy, he is too sick to be stuffed in a barrel. I can get him into town without it, do not worry.”

The dwarf glared at him before looking down at the boy. A sad expression came over his mean face and for a moment, Bard believed they truly cared for the boy. The dwarf came over to him and placed the child in Bard’s waiting arms. He was amazed at how light he was, but worried nonetheless. 

“Take care of him. I don’t know how much time he has left.” The last part was said in a whisper and his large, dwarfish hand rested upon the boy’s brow for a moment before he paced over to the barrels, joined hands with the leader dwarf, and jumped in. The rest followed and soon it was just Bard and the boy. He looked down again at the child and wondered how long it had been since he had gotten sick. He was tempted to peel the bandages away and see how extensive the damage under them was. 

But, all too soon they were at the port. 

“I’ve brought the barrels,” he said to the fisherman named Barnabas. 

“Aye, and so ye have. And who might that wee one in yer arms be?”

“A child, sick. Found upon the shore. I wish to nurse him to health, if possible.”

“That be yer business, but fer the good turn, I will do ya one better. Discount of a quarter off fer the load.”

“That is too kind, Barnabas. I can’t take it. You’ve a family too.”

“Aye, but I can handle it. You yerself got four mouths to feed and with tha’ little one, you will need it more than I.”

“Then I will take it. Thank you Barnabas, for all that you have done for me and mine. One day I hope to repay you.”

“Nonsense, you pay us back plenty, what with yer feuding with the master. One day, you will be master of this here town, and then we will all be prosperous.”

They nodded to each other and the fish was poured over the head of the dwarves. He could faintly hear them grumbling at the treatment and inwardly laughed. Now, they could probably see why he had kept the child himself. He frowned, having momentarily forgotten the weight of the ill bairn. He gently cradled the child, stroking the sick thing’s forehead and tucking the stray hairs away from his face and behind his oddly pointed ears. The child could not have been older than his youngest, Tilda. 

The grumbling of the dwarves grew too loud for his liking, especially with how close they were to the main gates.

“Quiet! We’re approaching the toll gate.” He called, wishing badly he could kick one of the barrels, but holding back for the sake of professionalism. 

They got to the gate and the barge was roped to a nearby pole for that purpose. 

“Halt! Goods inspection. Papers please!” Percy, the guard said. Percy was one of the nicer guards, letting some of the poorer folk get away with minor infractions the master and his pet had decreed. He was of good ilk, and Bard made sure that when Yule rolled around, he would be finding a way to get something for him and his family. “Oh, it’s you, Bard!”

“Indeed, Good morning, Percy.”

“Anything to declare?” The guard said, eyeing the bundle in his arms.

“Aye, a wee bairn found on the coast, sicker than death. I couldn’t leave the child to his fate.”

“And a good thing too, I couldn’t imagine what I would have done if it were my wee Marie out in this cold. You’re a good man, Bard.”

“And you too, Percy.” The guard stamped his papers and held them out back to Bard, when they were snatched from his hand. 

“Not so fast,” the pet said. Alfrid was of a wretched sort. Bard had rather thought that ugliness only came out when somebody was truly wicked, and Alfrid was very ugly. The man did all of the master’s bidding and oftentimes, more. His level of cruelty far exceeded anything Bard would have thought possible. “Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland realm.”

Bard’s heart was racing. His plan to sneak the dwarves in had not taken into account the presence of the rat. 

“Only they’re not empty. Are they Bard? If I recall correctly, you’re licensed as a bargeman. Not…a fisherman.”

“That is none of your business.”

“Wrong, it is the Master’s business, which makes it  _ my _ business.”

Now, with Alfrid’s eyes firmly on him, the sick child was revealed. 

“What’s this?”

“A sick child.”

“And w’as he doin here?”

“I intend to help him. He was alone on the shore, near death.”

“Why are you bringing him into my town if he’s near death. We’ve got enough people.”

“I am bringing him in so that he does not die. Come on, Alfrid, have a heart! These people need to eat and this child deserves a chance at survival.”

“These fish, and that mongrel are illegal.” The disgusting man looked to one of his lackeys. “Empty the barrels over the side. Drown the diseased rat.”

“You hear him, in the canal,” his lackey, Barga, said. “Come on, get a move on.”

Guards flowed onto the barge, rocking it from side to side and bumping it against the wooden planks of the guard station. Bard tucked the child further into his arms, ignoring his pounding heart as a guard approached him for the boy, and others grabbed the barrels and lugged them over to the lip of the vessel.

“Folk in this town are struggling. Times are hard. Food is scarce.” His voice sounded more sure than he actually was, and he sent a prayer up to Eru.

“That’s not my problem,” Alfrid said.

“And when the people hear the Master is dumping fish back in the lake? When the rioting starts? Will it be your problem then?”

Alfrid’s face crumpled in frustration, knowing he was backed into a corner. 

“Fine! Stop!” The guards unhanded the barrels and backed off of the barge. “Ever the people’s champion, hey, Bard? Protector of the common folk. You might have their favor now, bargeman, but it won’t last. And make sure that mongrel doesn’t get the rest of the people sick, oh great protector, or I will have you thrown in jail for aiding and abetting a known danger.”

“Your kindness precedes you, Alfrid.”

“Raise the gates!” Percy shouted, a sorry look on his face. Bard nodded silently in acknowledgment, sure to inform the poor guard that he knew it was not his fault. 

“The Master has his eye on you. You’ll do well to remember, we know where you live.”

“It’s a small town, Alfrid. Everyone knows where everyone lives.”

They got to the edge of town before Bard had the chance to tip the barrels over. He held the child with his hip, shoulder, and free hand as he pushed the barrels down, spilling both the fish and the dwarves all over the deck. They docked and several townspeople stared agape as the dwarves walked onto the wooden pathways. Bard looked to the people.

“You may have the fish for free, in return for your silence. They were never here. Go about your business.”

Cheers of thanks rang around quietly before they started gathering up the spilled fish.

Bard’s small smile at the townspeople was quickly removed when he heard pounding footsteps coming closer. 

“Da, our house is being watched!”

“I could have suspected. Thank you, Bain.”

“Who’s that, da? And who are they?” Bard turned his head to see several glaring dwarves. 

“I intend to help this child, as for them, they are simply a band of dwarves who have paid for a quiet entrance into our little town. I trust you won’t tell anyone of this?” His son nodded his head and Bard grew proud. His children were the best thing that had ever happened to him, and seeing them grow up has been a privilege. 

.oOo.

Dwalin was not happy to be swimming through the freezing waters underneath the laketown paths. His only gratitude was that the bargeman had deigned it so that he would be carrying Bilbo. Dwalin could not imagine the boy surviving the trek.

When they got to the point Bard told them to, they waited, treading water to stay afloat. Three knocks told them it was safe for them to climb up. Dwalin was sore, cold, tired and hungry and he was in no mood to be climbing out of a toilet. 

The boy held out his hand and Dwalin growled. 

“If you speak of this to anyone, I will personally snap your arms off.” He smacked away the offered hand, knowing Thorin would later laugh at his grumpiness. The boy gestured for them to go upstairs, and so Dwalin made his way upstairs with Nori close behind. 

“Da, why are there dwarves coming out of our toilet?” A little girl said.

“Will they bring us any luck?” A younger girl said. 

Not giving them an answer, Dwalin beelined to the fire where Bard stood with Bilbo in his arms. 

“How is he?”

“There is more color in his cheeks, and his fever has dropped.”

“That’s good.”

Dwalin watched the man as he sat Bilbo onto the nearby bed. Oin hurried over to its side and started tending to the boy, changing his bandages and mixing up teas to aid in his recovery.

“I’m happy to say that it looks like the boy is recovering. He should be waking up soon.” 

A sigh of relief echoed from the adults in the room. 

“Who is this child? Why is he so sick? Why has he not been cared for?”

“He is our companion. We did not know his age. He grew sick in the forest where we found ourselves without the proper supplies to handle an illness of any sort.”

“Then what are those bandages for? Or are they just decorative? Hmm?”

“We were captured by a band of Goblins, he was injured then.”

The man narrowed his eyes at the group but went about his business moving objects around the small house and gathering things. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legolas in the Hobbit movies was wack... bring back my soft boy from lotr... Also that eyeliner and icy blue eyes duo really was not it.


	13. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laketown Living. Be warned: canon divergence and introspection ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow!
> 
> A new chapter is here! How is everything? I trust that you all are staying healthy and social distancing when possible. 
> 
> When I first started posting this, I didn't know what to think about the whole pandemic, and I tried not to mention it, but now with everything happening in the U.S., and where I live, I think sharing experiences is important. 
> 
> If anybody ever wants to talk to me you can find me on Instagram: @yo.its.alright or through email: septimiuscorvus@gmail.com. 
> 
> Chapter title is "Hope" by Messages to Bears on their album "Departures", which I only recently discovered.

.oOo.

Beijar woke up slowly. 

This differed greatly from when he woke up in the healing halls of Mirkwood. Where before he woke up to the brightness of the elven compound, now he woke up to warmth. 

This heat was not a product of some fever left to run through his exhausted and overworked body, no. This was a comforting warmth, like that of hugs and stories on the rug in front of the hearth. Beneath his head, he felt fur. It smelt sweet and mildewy, and it was odd but Beijar could not resist rolling his head and smashing his damp face into its soft warmth. His eyes were still closed, but from under his eyelids, he could see the orange glow of a fire. 

The next thing he was aware of was the sound. Voices occupied and filled the space he was in. He couldn’t make out the words but he could hear Fili and Kili, Oin and Gloin, Thorin and Dwalin and Balin, Ori, Nori and Dori, Bofur and Bifur and Bombur. He heard strangers, two girls, a boy, and a man. They had the same accent. 

“I think the boy is waking.” He made out, sounded like Oin. 

“Leave him some space.” He heard from Dwalin. 

“Bilbo?” Kili asked. He forgot that his Hobbit Name was Bilbo and felt his nose crinkle in reply. 

His eyelids were heavy and it took more energy than he would like to admit to open them even halfway. 

This time, instead of the high arching ceilings of elven architecture, Beijar was met with the sight of a small but ultimately cozy wooden dwelling. He could smell a pervasive dampness in the air. 

They must have made it to Laketown. 

He had no recollection of largely anything in the murky depths of the forest, nor did he have any memory of their escape. He recalled only the blonde prince and being held in someone’s arms. 

His lucidity had returned to him presently and he gazed now upon his friends as they gathered around his waking form. 

“Bilbo? Are you okay?” This time it was Fili asking the question.

“Okay.” 

At the response, the dwarves grew happy. 

“Lad! Y’er speaking Westron again!” He faintly recalled a feeling of frustration and quickly grew embarrassed. Just like the dwarves had their secret language, so too did he. 

“Alright, alright, give the lad some space. He is still recovering!” Oin said in an exasperated fashion. 

With the retreat of most of the dwarves, Beijar finally got a good look at the other four people that were in the room. He found he was right in his earlier assumption. There were two girls, a boy, and a man—their father. The youngest was a girl, her hair was brown and curly and her face was dirty and round. She held a gleeful look in her eyes, no doubt in wonder at the guests. Next in line was the boy. He was thin and spry, his face, too, was dirty and his hair was black and curly. He seemed nervous, jumpy when the dwarves moved too suddenly. The oldest—it seemed—of the three children was the last girl. Her hair looked the colour of straw, a blend of brown and gold, and it was fairer than her siblings. It was pinned up and her sleeves were rolled. She had smudges on her face, but nothing to measure up to the filthiness of the youngest. Beijar rather thought he liked her the most. Finally, the man, the father. He looked to be a stern man, but he had loving eyes. His coloring was dark, darker than any of his children. He had a kempt mustache and his hair was pulled back in a way that half of it was up and the other half was left to fall upon his shoulders, the weight of it rendering it wavy rather than the soft curls of his youngest two. He and his eldest daughter shared a stern brow that sometimes made them seem as though they were deep in thought, or cross. 

He was pulled from his observations with the approach of the father. The man knelt down next to him and rested a hand upon Beijar’s brow. His hand was large and comforting, almost reminding him of his own father. 

“Your fever has gone down significantly, child.” 

Ah. So he was a child now. He bit down the indignation that rose from the statement. It was not their fault that the dwarves thought he was a child. He didn’t quite understand why they thought it, but they did and apparently while he was amidst the throes of fever, they had informed everyone he was a child. He looked up quietly as the comforting hand was removed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the little girl run up to him with a bundle in her arms, putting it on top of Beijar, remaining by the side of the bed next to her father. 

“They may not be the best fit, but they’ll keep you warm,” the man said. 

Beijar really wished he knew their names so he could stop referring to them as ‘father’ and ‘children’.

“I give my thanks… What is your name?”

The question seemed to throw the man. 

“My apologies, I did not realize. I am Bard. This,” he patted the shoulder of the little girl, “is my daughter, Tilda. That,” he said pointing to the boy, “is my son Bain. And lastly, this,” he gestured towards the eldest, “is my daughter Sigrid.” 

“It is nice to meet you, Bard, Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid. Thank you for letting us stay in your home.” 

“Nonsense. It is what anyone would do, though I appreciate the thanks nonetheless.” 

Bard was a good man, Beijar was coming to find out. 

“Then you would know that Girion hit the dragon. He loosened his scale under the left wing, one more shot and he would’ve killed the beast!” Balin exclaimed from across the room, making Beijar jump from his spot in a nearby bed that he suspected was Bard’s. He looked over and saw Kili and Ori sitting in front of Balin near the fire, enraptured with what the elder dwarf was saying. Dwalin was next to his brother, disrupting the story. Thorin sat stormy in the corner.

“That’s a fairy story, Lad. Nothing more. It’s best you not listen to the maudlin words of an old dwarf.” Balin glared at his brother. 

Beijar looked back to Bard in time to see the man unclenching his jaw. He couldn’t tell if it was a product of the dwarves behavior, or due to the subject of the conversation. 

.oOo.

Beijar had been taking it slowly for the past hour, his body too sore for him to push himself too far. He had finally managed to sit where his feet were touching the ground. Another push and a twinge of pain rolling through his muscles and he was standing. His feet were wobbly and he certainly didn’t remember it being like this in the elven halls of Mirkwood. 

He used the bed as a support and he managed to walk to a dressing room on the other side of the fireplace tucked away in a hall. He had been told where it was by Sigrid, kind enough to not push him whilst he was struggling to sit upright. The room was simple and contained a bench and a small table with a candle on it. However both the bench and the table were too high for him unless he was willing to jump a little ways, and that would take more energy and effort than he could currently afford. 

He peeled the sweat damp, long-sleeve, over-large silk tunic off of himself and shivered as a draft blew through the room. He dreaded disrobing more, but the clothes given to him were warm looking, there was even a coat. He quickly removed his trousers, stumbling on the leg as the threadbare fabric clung to his large Hobbit feet. 

He scrambled against the cold to the pile of clothes gifted to him. He pulled forth the pants first. They weren’t too different from his last pair. They were simple and brown and went all the way down to his feet. The fabric seemed thin, but not as thin as he was used to—and at least they didn’t have any holes or fraying hems like his last pair. The undershirt was cream coloured and simple. The over shirt had a higher collar than he was used to and smelled of mildew. Finally, the coat. Beijar had been looking forward to the coat. His teeth had started chattering at that point and was hurrying in his robing. 

He left the dressing room, grabbing the elven clothes and stumbling back into the warm main room. Dwalin was the first dwarf he saw, and the nearest so he went to him. 

“Dwalin, is my pack here?” He hoped it was, he couldn’t stand to lose its contents. 

“‘Fraid not, lad, we could not find it during our escape. We couldn’t risk getting caught.” A pit grew in his stomach. His pack, gone. The knife, the necklace, the charm, gone. He almost regrets getting the dwarves their packs back when they couldn’t get his. He understood the need to leave, but he hated the consequences. 

It was with a heavy heart that he left the clothes in a corner, shamefully hidden from the house’s inhabitants. He went back to where the dwarves were lounging and sat in front of the fire, the shock of losing what was most precious to him sent a wave of numbing coldness over him. The warmth of the fire was ineffective against thawing out his cold heart, and once more he wished he were alone, feeling lonely amongst these people he was now growing somewhat closer to.

“Tomorrow marks the second to last day of autumn. If we are to reach the door in time, we must hurry.”

“And if we do not? If we fail to find the hidden door before that time?” Bombur asked quietly, fear in his usually jovial voice.

“Then this quest has been for nothing.” Kili said in answer. 

“I say we leave now.” Gloin exclaimed, his face matching his fire red hair. 

“You are not going anywhere, not now anyway.” Bard said, his voice was hard. 

“What did you say?” Dwalin questioned. Beijar could see the rising anger in Dwalin’s face and could see Bard just barely refrain from glaring at the surly dwarf. 

“There are spies watching this house and probably every dock and wharf in the town. We must wait till nightfall.” 

It was not anger Bard felt. Beijar understood now. It was fear. 

If Bard was caught toeing out of line by these spies, he could lose his livelihood. He would probably be imprisoned. Beijar had done research and translations for unsteady governments that had treated its citizens as lesser people, inspiring paranoia and ignoring signs of uprising. Three times his commission had been cancelled because his client had been killed in a revolution. He knew all too well what spies meant. 

.oOo.

The evening passed quickly. A meager dinner of fish stew was served and Beijar finished the bowl, he was so hungry. Tilda and Bain sat next to him and the three ate quietly as the dwarves talked around them. 

He had eaten fast and sat with his empty bowl as his companions finished. The bandaged marks on his face were itchy and he wished they would hurry and heal.

“So, Bilbo,” Tilda started, “Why is a child like you travelling with the dwarves? Surely it must be dangerous.” Her voice was quiet and conspiratorial, like she was sharing a secret.

“I’m from a far away place, past the misty mountains, and even further then. Where I’m from, I’m not a child. I reached my majority there, but the dwarves insisted I was a child, because I was so young. I came with them for a different reason though.”

“Oh,” she sighed. “How old are you, then?”

“Thirty three.” Tilda gasped. 

“That’s so old! I’m only nine.”

“I’m only thirteen,” Bain added. “Da is thirty six, and Sigrid is seventeen.”

Beijar grew quiet once more and Tilda asked no more questions. The difference in ages seemed weird. Every species seemed to have a different majority and Beijar seemed to never fit in with others. Too weird, too different. He had actually hit his majority already, for Haltija, anyway, when he had turned 500. It wasn’t until he was around 650 that they ran and hid. But that was over 70,000 years ago in a time that no living being but him had remembered.

Tilda and Bain eventually got up and went to their rooms, presumably to sleep. Beijar never needed that much sleep, and with his illness and how much sleeping he got with the fever, he no longer felt tired, just drained. It was largely the forest that had made him ill, outside of the forest, he should be fine, if not depressed. 

Just another thing that made him weird. The kindness from the dwarves that had warmed his heart was now cooling. He felt stupid and dumb for ever thinking he could be a part of the company. He would defeat the dragon in some way and then he didn’t know what he would do. He could… he didn’t know. He couldn’t go back to the Shire. Could he? He could go home to Hamfast and Belle. They had invited him back. But was that really what he wanted? He would have set out for nothing. Wasted his own efforts, if not the efforts of the others. 

He needed to focus on the dragon. How could he, in this stupid Hobbit body, defeat a creature that rivaled the size of his true form? 

He had no clue, and the thought cloyed him. His throat grew tight and it became hard to swallow. His nose hurt and so did his eyes. 

He was powerless! He had nothing! He was nothing!

He sat, choking back tears and staring at the fireplace.

.oOo.

During the night, Beijar heard footsteps on the roofs of nearby houses. He heard arrows flying in the night sky, thunking wetly into its target. With every whoosh of an arrow, a splashing sounded through the air. 

Beijar couldn’t do more than pray. Whispering fervently under his breath, begging for the Mercy of Yavannah and Nienna and Manwë. At some point, the front door was kicked in and an orc came in. 

The noise roused the others. The screams of the orc with his axe raised came charging. Beijar let out a terrified sound, like a squeak. Dwalin, Bifur and Dori were the first to be armed, taking the wretched creature out quickly. The others took up arms and Bard came crashing into the main room from another, the children following. 

Beijar’s heart dropped as more orcs flowed in, nearly overpowering Dwalin and Dori and Bifur, the three strongest members of the company. Beijar scrambled around for the second time that night, desperately trying to find his sword. He found it under a couple of the others’ packs. 

The blade radiated blue light that was so strong it flooded the sheath and spilled out. 

He drew it. 

Blue light joined the orange glow of the fire. 

Somewhere behind him, Tilda had started crying. He could hear Sigrid and Bain trying to calm the girl, but their voices were also terrified. 

Sword in hand, Beijar waited until he spotted an orc spilling from the tight formation of dwarves. When one broke through, threatening the children, Bard was ready with his bow and arrow, but a bow and arrow were of no use in such a confined place. Beijar, however, was ready. 

Sword in hand, he struck. The orc parried. He struck again, lower. Anything he had ever fought in this form had always underestimated his height. He slashed through the thing's leg. It tried to strike him with its mace-like weapon. Beijar parried. He slashed the other leg. The thing shouted and dropped. Beijar stabbed it in the side. 

Sword in hand, Beijar stood once more. When he had killed that orc, time had slowed down. He could see moment by moment, knew what moves the thing was going to make. Now, however, time sped back up. Events were rushing by. 

Thirteen dwarves took down the remaining fifteen or so of the orcs. Nearly twenty were dead on the floor near the door and in the stairwell.

A red-haired elf came in, her bow ready to aim and fire. An arrow nocked but not drawn. Kili’s face brightened from its dour expression at the sight. Beijar wonders who this elf might be, if the others had met her but he had not. 

He shook his head. With the orcs in the room dead, he wiped the bloody sword off on the rags that covered the thing. He re-sheathed his sword and stood there, silent. He removed the bandage from his face, annoyed at seeing it in the corner of his vision. 

.oOo.

They were set to embark that morning. 

Bard offered to take them to the north eastern shore and away from Laketown. Beijar could understand the urgency of both parties. The dwarves wanted to reach the mountain as soon as possible and Bard wanted his town safe from the evil things that had tracked them. 

The red haired elf, whose name turned out to be Tauriel, insisted upon joining the company; much to the chagrin of its older members. Kili was ecstatic however, almost clinging to her whenever she was near and following her when she wasn’t. This would have amused Beijar greatly, and in the back of his mind, he was. However, his thoughts were on a different set of events. 

It went like this: 

The sun rose. The sky was still darkened. It was overcast. 

The dwarves hadn’t unpacked, there was no reason to. They didn’t have to pack. 

Bifur, Bofur, Nori, and Gloin disposed of the dead orcs in the lake below. 

Beijar was sitting down on a chair, deep in thought regarding the dragon problem. 

Sigrid was bustling around, attempting to tidy the mess that came with the orcs. Bain was cooking in the little kitchen. Tilda was sitting in another chair, staring at the ceiling and kicking her legs. Bard was talking with Thorin. 

Beijar, frustrated and getting nowhere, leaned back in the chair from his hunched position, looking at the ceiling. 

Atop the table, suspended from the ceiling, was the last thing he would have expected to see. 

“Athelstan,” he gasped reverently. 

_ A Black dagger! _

He would recognize it anywhere. The set had belonged to his mother once upon a time, lovingly named Athelstan after its creator, a friend of his mother’s.

She lost them all in one of the great battles before their downfall. Somewhere out east, in a land Beijar had not the chance to travel to. 

Now, tens of thousands of years later, he had found one of her daggers. 

They were impervious to damage. Fireproof, rustproof, chip-proof, not able to be bent. It was truly a holy grail amongst weapons, forged by a master smith whose ability to create and forge had been unsurpassed, even in the modern age. 

If he needed to kill a dragon, that was the only way he would be able to do it. 

He needed to get it down from where it was hanging, supporting pots and pans and bags of tasteless, wilting herbs and potatoes covered in eyes. It was disrespectful for it to be used in such a way. 

Bard had made his way to the table sometime during Beijar’s observation, leaning on one hand, watching the Hobbit. 

“Is there any way I can persuade you to stay here?”

Shaken from his thoughts, Beijar’s nose crinkled. 

“I have a duty to perform. I signed a contract. I can’t leave now, when we are so close to ending the ordeal.” Bard looked alarmed.

“What duty?”

“I am to steal something from beneath the belly of the beast.”

“Are you insane?”

“I would think so, but I must carry it out nonetheless.”

“Who put you up to this? I can help you if you are in trouble.” The last sentence was whispered. 

Beijar looked back up at the dagger, not making eye contact with Bard. 

“I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of this life and I’ve been letting it keep me from carrying out my destiny, been putting off my fate. For eleven years I was petrified with it. A mix of terror and grief. My soul was destitute, I was rich in everything but life. But for once, in my god-forsaken existence, I have been delivered an opportunity to do more for myself and others. It is not just my fate in my hands, but the fate of many others. The dwarves in the blue mountains that are dying for lack of a home. The inhabitants of Mirkwood, wasting away in their poisoned air. The citizens of Laketown, starving at the hands of an unjust ruler. The people of Arda, unaware of the rising of a nearly undefeatable enemy.” His voice was quiet, intended for only Bard’s ears, he was fervent in his tone. “No longer am I letting my fear take hold of my heart. I can own this fear. If I die by dragon fire, then I have died a noble death.”

“You will have died a fool’s death.”

“But a happy fool, a content fool. It is not my first time playing with death. I’ve made it this far.” 

He lifted his hand to the bare scars on his neck. He had been so caught up in the adventure, he had not noticed the wrap falling loose. 

“If I am to do this properly, and I do intend to do it properly, I will need something from you.”

Bard looked sickened, panicked, his face covered in disbelief at Beijar’s earlier words. 

“What? What is it you may need?”

“Athelstan, the black dagger.” Now, the man’s face was filled with alarm and confusion once more. 

“The black dagger?” Beijar pointed to Athelstan. “The black arrow? How do you know of it?”

“I’ve seen many before. I need to use it to kill the dragon.”

With his clear intentions stated plainly, Bard grew pale as the blood drained from his face. 

“Yes, of course,” he said weakly, slowly removing the pots and herbs, as if in a daze. 

Athelstan was removed from where it had hung and handed to Beijar. The weapon looked heavy, but was remarkably light, a property of the stone ore it had been forged from. His hands looked tiny compared to the magnitude of the weapon, more like a spear when he wielded it rather than a dagger. 

“Thank you, you have done more than you can ever imagine.”

.oOo.

The last moments of summer slipped away through their fingertips as the chill of the air nipped at their noses. No matter how they wished it, they could not stop the passing of time. 

The grass below their marching feet was dead and crunched with every step. Pebbles and small stones littered the large plain and Beijar was ready to rest after their full day of walking. His feet, remarkable for their lack of need for any shoe or boot, were aching fiercely after everything he has trekked through. 

He had found a rope and tied Athelstan the dagger onto his back under his pack. He had received many looks from the dwarves and many more questions. He refused to answer in depth, only stating that it would help him with the dragon. He had noticed, however, that Balin and Thorin had remained quiet during the interrogation, likely already knowing what he was carrying given its apparent history in the modern world. 

Regardless, they were now walking silently. Beijar was a live-wire, his nerves had risen considerably and every sudden move made him nearly jump. The elf didn’t seem to fare any better. Tauriel had stuck closely to the two princes and Ori and had not spoken a word since Bard’s craft landed on the shore. 

They were almost to the mountain. 

The terrain grew rougher and already there were patches of unmelted snow littering the ground as the air grew heavier and fog rolled in and out as it pleased. The company reached an overlook that revealed the sight of a desolate city. Buildings were crumbling and even from a great distance, Beijar could see the char burned onto some of the standing roofs. 

It was the once prosperous city of Dale. 

It looked so far away, Beijar dreaded the amount of walking he would have to do to reach it. It was too much. 

“Gandalf was supposed to meet us here.” Beijar said quietly. In his heart he felt safer with the wizard, though he did not know why as he had spent the least amount of time with the Istari than any other member of the company. 

But that wasn’t true. The wizard was never a member of the company. When they were being introduced to Beijar, they had stated that they had numbered only thirteen. Gandalf was to find them a fourteenth member, and that was ‘Bilbo Baggins’. With Gandalf it would have been fifteen. The wizard had most likely planned on abandoning them, not sticking around when the trouble was climaxing. He had left during the trolls, he had left during the orc chase, he left them at the mercy of the Misty Mountains, and he had left them to the mind poisoning, body sickening journey through Mirkwood. He was not there now, and he had never shown up when he was needed. He was a last resort, always coming with a saving grace when the situation was nigh. 

Beijar did not know when Gandalf was coming, and that scared him more than he could comprehend. Maybe he was scared that the only other ancient being he knew had forsaken him. The only other person capable of understanding his plight besides the lonely elf in Rivendell. As he had told Bard, he had been God-forsaken, and now his designation was rearing its ugly head again. 

The others had already started walking when Beijar was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of a bird’s caw. 

.oOo.

They had passed the city with relative ease, going around the gates rather than traversing the winding paths of the town center. 

They had entered the foothills surrounding the mountain, avoiding the main doors at all costs. 

“Anything?” Thorin asked, shouting to the dwarves. The company had split up to look for the staircase that was supposed to lead to where the secret entrance was. 

“Nothing!” Dwalin called back. 

“If the map is true, the hidden door lies directly above us,” Fili stated. 

Beijar had wandered around, biding his time. Durin’s day was tomorrow and the finding of the door was not as urgent as the older dwarves had made it seem. 

Ori, Nori, Bombur, Bofur, Fili, Kili, and Tauriel had already started to set up camp for the night. Darkness was quickly approaching and soon they would not be able to see anything, let alone the hidden passage for the secret door. With firewood found and lit, soon the glowing sparks rose in the air as Bombur set a pot upon the flame. 

Beijar sat down, untying Athelstan and setting the lance next to him. He was exhausted, his body was still recovering from his long sickness in Mirkwood and the long journey from the shores of Laketown to the base of Erebor. Dori sat next to him, his pack in his arms rifling around its contents. He made a happy grunt and pulled something from its depths. 

“Ah-ha, this will do nicely.”

“What are you referring to, might I ask?”

“I had asked Bard if he had any healing teas before we left that I might liberate. I have some now if you would like me to brew some for you.” Beijar’s heart warmed with the offer. 

“Thank you, I will have to take you up on that offer.”

The grey dwarf liberated a bowl of hot water from Bombur and came back to Beijar, setting a tied cheesecloth bag into the liquid. Four minutes later and the bag was removed and the bowl handed to him. 

“Thank you, again Dori.”

“Think nothing of it, Lad.” 

The dwarf got up and sat down closer to his youngest brother and Beijar was once more left alone. 

The tea was spicy but warm and savory. He could feel the chill of the mountain night air receding from his chest and being replaced with the soup-like beverage. He finished the bowl quickly and wrapped his dirty, hole filled blanket around him. He fell asleep that night with no troubles, despite the threat of a dragon sleeping not too far away.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it! I had this thought while writing some time ago that Gandalf really just joined because he could, and he never really formally joined. I love Gandalf so much, but he is just a man, even if he is a very powerful man. He makes mistakes, and its important to recognize that. 
> 
> Anyway shoutout to SilverDragon1218 for all of the comments, I literally love you


	14. Katie Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search, riddles, introspection, the dragon, mourning, then, a celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy ahhoy,
> 
> Fellows! I am currently writing the second to last chapter of the story, so I will now be posting every other day. 
> 
> I got a lot written the other day because I pinched a nerve in my back and was practically bed-ridden for the better part of two days, but its all cool now. I hope you all like the chapter and don't think its too "tell and not show". Not a lot of dialogue...
> 
> Chapter title is after song "Katie Cruel" by Karen Dalton on her album "Green Rocky Road"

.oOo.

“Up here!” Tauriel called the next afternoon. They had been awoken early that morning by the booming command of one Thorin Oakenshield. ‘Rise! We must search!’ he had said, not listening to the grumbles of the company. 

Tauriel herself was a light sleeper and had awoken at the sound of the leader shifting to stand. Not that she had been fully asleep anyway, not with the cacophonous snores of the dwarves around her. The only member who had been truly silent besides her had been the child, who she had been informed was not only a child, but also a halfling from lands far to the west. 

She had never seen a halfling before and was fascinated by his short stature. The Hobbit, Bilbo, looked just like a child of man, except for the scarring wounds on his face. Even after this discovery though, she silently wondered how it was Bilbo was able to recover from his deadly illness in a few short days. 

She had stopped thinking about it when the searching began. Kili, by far the handsomest dwarf she had ever seen, had followed her around along with his brother. They had been wandering around aimlessly trying to find some sort of hint at where an invisible door  _ might _ be. And in all honesty, Tauriel thought the task inane, but went along with it for Kili’s sake. The whole four hours they had been searching, with slight pause for breakfast and a mid-day meal, the dwarf had gone on about the wonders of Erebor and what treasures it would bring the land. 

His excitement made Tauriel smile, and the earnest look in his eyes made butterflies flutter in her stomach. She had never felt this before. She had long thought that her wonder and love had dried up and died like many of the creatures and plants in Mirkwood. She loved her home, but she could stand it no longer. It was killing her slowly. 

It was with these thoughts sitting heavily in her head that she looked up and saw a large carving of a dwarven king on the mountain side. Behind this dwarf, was a staircase. It was a confusing staircase, you go up until a wall and then you have to turn back and jump to the next flight, though with the miniscule stature of a large number of their company, including the halfling, the climb would be difficult, if not impossible. 

“You have keen eyes, elf.” Thorin Oakenshield said, the tone of his voice was contemptible. His obvious bias against others of her race was as intolerable as he was. She almost wondered if he was that way with others that were not of dwarven heritage. Something she would ask Bilbo about after this ordeal. 

The company was silent as the trek up the stairs started. As she thought earlier, the method proved to be especially challenging for members of a lesser height. Poor Bilbo was an example of this. The halfling had to brace himself on his hands and jump to the next step, trying to scrabble up the sleek stone surface with his large bare feet. Tauriel did not have to ponder too long about why he was at the back of the group.

She herself was in the middle of the group, behind the red headed dwarf called Gloin and in front of Kili. Thorin was directly in front, followed by the bald and mean-looking dwarf, Dwalin. She could have easily taken the front position, but she opted to stay with Kili instead of facing the open hostility of the dwarf king.

It was in the evening when they finally reached the top. 

Bilbo was still making his way up the stairs, but in the excitement it seemed as though the dwarves had forgotten their smaller companion. Tauriel was standing along the edge of the cliff next to Kili and his brother. The two were rifling through their bags, grabbing any dried food they had and passing it around. She declined the offer, watching the other members of the company. 

The platform they were on was small, but hosted the company plus elf comfortably. Kili had sat down at this point with a chunk of dried venison between his teeth, leaning against her leg. She let her hand rest on the back of his head, fingers twisting in its tangles. 

The three dwarves that had the same nose had all sat down next to each other. The grey haired one fussing over the youngest and the middle dwarf rolling his eyes. This familiarity with each other was different than Tauriel had ever seen. And now, as she looked around, she could see the strong familial bonds, siblings taking care of each other and bickering. She wondered why her dwarf and his brother didn’t participate in the same behaviour. She knew from his stories that Kili was in fact the youngest on the journey, yet it was the red bowl-haired dwarf that appeared the youngest with how much coddling the dwarf was afforded. 

She grew a strong urge to coddle her dwarf. His playful side is what first drew her in, his bravery and ability to smile and joke and laugh even in the worst of situations. His depth and understanding held her there in his clutches, and she found she did not mind this. 

Her mind wandered more until she found that she was confused as to what was to happen next. 

“Kili,” she started quietly, not willing to draw attention from the other dwarves upon herself. 

“Yes,  **my love** ?” she didn’t know what he had called her, but she blushed at his crooked smile. 

“What is to happen next? When the door opens? What of the dragon?” He placed his large hand upon hers and drew her down, where she found herself sitting beside him, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Bilbo will go in first, cause he signed the contract saying he would go in and steal the Arkenstone. He will check the status of the dragon and report back. Then we will come up with another plan, but I know for sure that uncle Thorin is going to enter first, seeing as he is the king and all that, then uncle Dwalin cause he is the consort of uncle Thorin and captain of the guard. Then it will be Fili and I because we are the heirs and princes. And so on so forth based on rank. I suppose you will be entering when Bilbo does after he reports back, seeing as neither of you are dwarves.” Kili looked pleased at himself for the plan, and Tauriel, shocked by his status as prince (which wasn’t surprising but she had never given it too much thought), wondered if he had memorized this plan along his journey. 

She turned around and sat looking out at the land below her, marvelling at the sight. The sun had come out from behind the clouds and was shining brilliantly and bathing her in warmth. Further examination showed Bilbo finally making it up the stairs, sweating and panting as he wavered in front of the last step. Tauriel nearly jumped up, thinking he was close to falling off the ledge and down the stairs he went up. Instead, he collapsed in a heap against the rock wall next to it, his small sword clanking against the stone. He had nothing with him except his clothes, his sword, and the wrapped arrow he had carried all the way from Esgaroth. 

A stone formed in her stomach as she heard the arguing of dwarves behind her. This little boy, (for even if he was a halfling, a Hobbit, he was still the youngest member of the company and was a child at only thirty and three years old), was going to be sent off into the depths of Erebor to steal from the most dangerous beast of the Third Age. Why would these dwarves who’ve lived long, fulfilling lives send a poor, injured little boy off to his death? And suddenly, she found she hated the dwarves arguing behind her, for their unwavering selfishness. She could not come to hate Kili, for surely he was too young to have had influence, but the older dwarves, who certainly knew better… She hated them. 

“We’re losing the light. Come on!” 

“Be quiet. I can’t hear when you’re thumping!”

“I can’t find it. It’s not here! It’s not here!”

The sun started setting and Tauriel almost wished they would never find the secret door. 

“Break it down!” great booming sounds of axe hitting stone sounded, and if the dragon was sleeping, surely he was not anymore. “Come on!”

And finally, the sun set in the horizon, not to come back up until the morning when it would be too late. 

“We lost the light.”

“It’s no good! The door’s sealed! Can’t be open by force. Powerful magic on it.”

“No!... The last light of Durin’s Day…will shine upon the keyhole…That’s what it says. What did we miss?... What did we miss? Balin?” 

Tauriel squashed the pity in herself, refusing to look over at the panicked dwarves. Even in darkness, she could see quite well. Bilbo, from his pitiful little corner, did not look as disappointed or as alarmed as somebody who traveled many miles and many months for something that would not come to fruition. She did not know what it was, but he seemed to be waiting for something. 

“We’ve lost the light. There’s no more to be done. We had but one chance. Come away, lads. It’s over.” 

Looking over, at the devastated face of Kili, she found that she wished the door had been open, to shield him from knowing he had failed. Bilbo still sat in the corner, waiting silently as the dwarves picked up their shedded packs and headed towards the stairs. 

“You know,” the halfling started, his voice loud amongst the silence of defeat, “in moments when I found I had finished my work, I would work on riddles. Riddles from other countries, other languages, other kingdoms. I’ve solved them all.” 

He had the attention of everyone. He looked down and pushed himself off the ground, dusting himself off before looking up. 

“I believe I’ve solved it.”

“Solved what? You are speaking nonsense.” Thorin said angrily.

Bilbo looked up into the sky at the overcast moon and waited for a few seconds as the clouds moved. Right before it looked like the moon was going to come out from behind the clouds, he pointed to a rather clear area on the wall. 

The moon shone onto the surface and in the light, a sparkly doorway arose. 

“That,” the hobbit stated quite plainly, walking over to the door. 

Tauriel could not believe her eyes as Thorin produced the key from somewhere and unlocked the door, the heavy cylinders turning and clicking as the key twisted in the stone. And then, with a great creak, the door swung open, releasing a putrid whiff of air, heavy with the scent of dragon. 

“Erebor,” Thorin gasped. 

“Thorin.” The white haired dwarf, Balin said, placing a hand on the king’s shoulder. His voice was choked with emotion. 

“I know these walls. These halls. This stone is our own. You remember it, Balin. Chambers filled with golden light.” He put his hand against the stone of the door. “I made a promise, when Erebor first fell all those years ago. I promised I would take it back. And now, we have.”

“Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s folk. May the heart of the mountain unite all dwarves in defense of this home.” The red haired banking dwarf said, reading a set of runes carved into the back of the door. 

“I guess it is my time,” the Hobbit said, walking over to the door and adjusting the arrow on his back. The dwarves stood there and watched in silence as Bilbo took a deep breath. Tauriel could hear the quiet gasp of Kili as he realized just what was to happen. 

The halfling walked into the darkness and disappeared from sight, probably forever. 

.oOo.

His body ached and hurt with every move he made. The stairs had been especially brutal, it had taken up all of his newly regained energy and left him panting, gasping for breath at the top of the ledge. 

Now, he was entering the darkness. He was fulfilling the part of the journey he had looked forward to the most. He was going to defeat the dragon. It was at this point of the journey that Beijar realized everything he had gone through. He had no clue where his standing with the dwarves were now, but quickly pushed it aside as he walked further down the passage. 

His mouth was dry and he was lightheaded, his brain filled with the sound that the cicadas made as they cried into the night during hot Shire summers. He wanted to lay in a cool pool of water and drift until he was no more, but he had a job, a duty to not only the dwarves, but all of Arda. 

Further and further he walked, trying to quiet the beating of his heart. A light at the end of the tunnel, he walked forwards. 

The room that the passage emptied into was enormous, capable of holding his entire home forest within its walls. It did not help that it was filled near to the brim in some places with sparkling golden coins. 

‘This must be the treasury’ he thought. ‘So where is the dragon?’

He wiped his sweaty palms against his coat. His anxiousness made his throat sticky and dry. He wished his mother would have been here. She would have known what to do, how to go about killing the dragon. She wouldn’t have been scared. He was terrified. 

It was then that he realized. His mother  _ had _ been scared when she went off to fight. He hadn’t understood at the time, and he had only just remembered the tears running down her face as she adorned her armor in preparation for battle. She was gone now. Her body lost to earth, her soul in Yavannah’s gardens, Eru willing. She was not here, nor would she ever be. It was his turn now, to put on his metaphorical armor and kiss his loved ones goodbye as he sacrificed himself for the betterment of the world. And with this realization, along with the realizations of earlier ponderings, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. 

He took the arrow from his back, leaving the rope he tied it with on the floor where it dropped. Properly armed, he went forward to the grand stairs. He knew that his contracted job was to steal the Arkenstone, whatever that was, but he fully intended to kill the dragon first, and look for the stone later.

He stood on one of the walkways that looked over the mountain of coins, and with a false bravado bellowed out: 

“Hear me, oh disgusting worm of Morgoth. Welcome your end, for it is I that brings it upon you!”

Coins slid from a pile in the middle of the room, revealing a golden eye from underneath. A huff of hot air sounded, throwing more coins out from the pile. 

“Well, well, A thief in  _ my _ mountain.” Smaug lifted his head, sending gold flying through the air. Beijar prided himself in the fact he didn’t flinch as several narrowly missed his face “And what exactly are you doing here?” 

“I’m no thief. No, I am a warrior, bent on your destruction.” The dragon laughed. 

“How pitiful! A weasel, a mere mouthful of a man--if I can even call you that--thinks they can kill me! Tell me, child. How do you plan to do that?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Oh? And why not? You’ve already stated your intentions. Tell me, what is your name, so I might place it with my dinner.”

“I see through your tricks, servant of Morgoth. I will not fall prey, not when I am the hunter.”

The dragon laughed. 

“And who are you to know of Morgoth and his servants? Hmm? Tell me, what is your name, oh great ‘Killer of Beasts’?”

Beijar was quickly growing frustrated, he was not able to see the opening in the wyrm’s scales. Was blind to his weak spot. 

“ _ Yavannah, help me through this battle as I drive forth your intentions of cleansing Arda. _ ”

“I have not heard that tongue before, tell me, where are you from?”

Beijar did not deign the question with an answer and moved around, hoping to see an opening in Smaug’s defenses. 

He jumped closer, off of the runway and into the pools of coins below, diving until he disappeared into the pile, ensconcing himself within the gems and jewels. 

“Thief!” the dragon cried. “Thief! You are here to steal from ME!” Booms echoed through the hall, and the coins around him vibrated with the force of the dragon as he stomped around in search of the hidden burglar. Beijar, seeing the opportunity for what it was, swam through the dense but precious metals, attempting to find a safe place to unbury himself, hopefully getting closer to Smaug in the process. 

Suddenly, a roar accompanied by heat sounded. The gold around him grew warm, then hot, then burning. Drips of liquid fire dropped down and licked at his face. It took everything within him to not scream out in pain and shock. His hands burned as they clawed their way through the mess of melting coin. 

Finally, he could take no more, and he jumped out. His luck had not yet run out, and he was grateful to discover he was near a low pillar that hid him from view of the roaring, mad beast. 

The cicadas in his ears came back with a force and his vision grew black spots. He kept moving forward, determined to make it to the pillar, where he could rest his burning face upon its cool marble facade. 

“Come out, rat! I’ll burn you out! I’ll smoke you out! I will kill you before you even get the chance to gaze upon my magnificence once more!” The dragon crouched low over the footway directly above him, his head twisting down low, right in front of Beijar, facing the opposite way. 

Holding in his gasping breaths and nausea from the pain, he walked as quietly as he could, arrow in hand to the neck of the beast. 

Exhausted and aching, he cried out in fury as he shoved Athelas into the wyrm’s great neck, dousing himself in the hot blood of the beast. Smaug roared, injured and angry, and tossed about, sending Baijar flying across the room. The Hobbit landed heavily on a large pile of hot gold. 

The dragon thrashed about moments longer, but the arrow had been shoved so far in that there was no hope. Smaug was dying. Beijar watched, numb, as the beast screamed and thrashed and breathed fire so high up in the air, that it reached the ceiling and scorched the stone. 

It was only minutes later when the beast slumped onto the coins, dead. Beijar smiled to himself, drowsy and light headed from pain and fatigue. 

His eyes slipped shut.

.oOo.

It was a short time later that he awoke. 

It could not have been very long as the dwarves had not yet come to find him, or the dead dragon. The carcass of the beast still emitting warmth despite rigor mortis setting in. 

The Haltija hauled himself up, crying out at the pain that twinged in his muscles, hands and face. He needed to soak in a cold bath and then curl up in a mountain of furs for a long time after this if he was to ever recover from the hardships of the journey and the subsequent fight with the dragon. 

He limped over to the nearest staircase, mindful of avoiding the warm, sticky blood spilled on the bed of coins that made up the floor. The climb up the stairs was not as bad as the stairs on the side of the mountain, but he, not for the first time, found himself cursing his short stature. Damned tall folk stairs.

He reached the passageway where he had made his peace with dying at the hands of a dragon. He kept going. At this point, his limp that had briefly gone away during Laketown, was quickly making a reappearance. His steps grew harder and slower. 

It took longer than he would like to admit to reach the doorway that had led him into the hellscape of a dragon’s den. The door was ajar, closed for the most part. The little light that was let in was beautiful and Beijar basked in it, wondering when it was he had grown so attached to a sun and moon he had not known until just recently. 

He stumbled, pushing the door open a little further and he slumped out, meeting the wondrous, worried, and shocked faces of the dwarves and elf. He smiled sheepishly in greeting. 

“The dragon, Smaug, is gone. The deed is done. He is dead.”

.oOo.

Dwalin had been concerned. 

No, that wasn’t the right word for it. He was worried. No. He was frightened? No. 

He was scared. 

Scared for the life of brave little Bilbo, who marched into the dragon’s den with little ‘how you do’. Given the chance, Dwalin would have argued that despite the contract he signed, he would not have to go into the depths of Erebor to find out if the dragon was truly sleeping, guarding, or dead. 

But then what? What were they to do if the halfling hadn’t gone? 

And that was it, wasn’t it? That was the reason Dwalin had paused for a moment too long that allowed the child to slip silently, morosely, into what was most likely his death. 

It had been a long time, too long for him to still be alive. In his heart, Dwalin knew the lad was dead. 

They all had heard it. The dragon’s angry roars. The hairs on the back of his neck had risen. And after what could only be thirty minutes later, the roaring stopped and the air grew silent. They all knew what this meant. 

Ori cried out. “Bilbo is dead!” tears poured down from the young dwarf’s face at the prospect of his friend dying. 

Looking around, Dwalin saw tears marring the faces of both of his nephews, Ori, Nori, Bofur, Oin, and Balin. The rest stood stony faced in their grief. 

“Ay. There is no mistaking it. The halfling has gone on from our world and into Aule’s Halls. He must have put up a fight, the dragon was angry for a long time before it grew silent.” Balin stated through his tears, a proud, grief filled smile on his face. 

“Was there nothing we could have done?” Fili quietly asked, his tears seemed to be lined with anger accompanying his grief. 

“No. There wasn’t. He had a job, he signed the contract. He carried out his duties to the best of his ability, and for that we will honor him.” 

Dwalin felt the resentment towards Thorin rise up within him, and hated himself for feeling it. Never before this quest had he felt such fury directed towards the man he had loved since they first met in battle. He hated himself for feeling this way, for not giving his unwithering love to his husband, who needed it the most it seemed sometimes. But his aloofness towards Bilbo Baggins, his utter lack of care and his disregard of the child had sickened Dwalin, to the point where he had ignored him in Laketown in attempt to drive through the maddening dwarf that this concept of caring for others was important to him. 

It seems as though the message was either unreceived or disregarded entirely. 

Dwalin looked back to the door. It had been closed most of the way when he wasn’t looking and the sight of it had driven a brief moment of alarm through his heart before he realized the stone was so heavy, that unless it was pushed, there was no way it would move. It felt rather like they were sealing Bilbo in there, like a tomb, left to his fate at the mercy of dragon fire. 

“What should we do now?” Dori asked mournfully. 

“I say we leave. Nothing good has come from this excursion. I fear we have lost more than we could have ever hoped to gain.” Gloin said.

“And so we should waste the opportunity given to us? Shut the door and say, ‘oh well, dinnae work this time, but aye next year is the year.’ I’m not doing that. I won’t do that. Bilbo didn’t die for us to even remotely consider giving up when we were so close.” Dwalin didn’t think he had ever seen Bofur this wound up. “I know most of ye had just warmed up to the halfling, but ye forget, we ignored him, belittled him, mocked him, for months before we considered him a part of the company. He sacrificed everything for our stupid, ill-thought out quest. When our own kin abandoned us, he stepped up and left behind his whole life for us. 

“I don’t think any of ye realize just how close to breaking he was. Do ye?” Everyone looked on in shock as the friendly, hat-wearing dwarf grew red in the face from anger rather than libations. “Do any of ye remember the night we fell into the goblin caves? Well, I happen to. Thorin. Ye yelled at Bilbo for slipping after he was thrown from that rock giant against the side of the mountain. And after everything he had been through, he was so close to throwing himself from the edge of the drop, if it weren’t for the goblins, we would have lost our wee halfling a hell of a lot sooner than we would have liked. And I bet none of ye have noticed the scars on his neck or his arms that he had tried to keep well hidden. Do any of ye ever wonder what those scars are from?” Dwalin was sickened by the insinuation, and what it meant. 

Everyone was thoroughly cowed by the miner dwarf. Even Thorin looked shameful. Dwalin was glad of it, as much as he was grieving. 

And then, they heard it. 

The stone door was creaking. And none of them were near it. Dwalin was fearful the wind was going to shut the door and then they really wouldn’t have a say in the matter. But to his surprise, the door was moving outward, towards them. A small, scarred, mangled, gold-covered hand peeked through the door. 

And there he was. The Hobbit. Their halfling. Whole, if not Hale. 

He was sweating heavily, his hair unkempt and containing flecks of gold. He was also covered in blood. It coated his coat, his hair, his face, his arms, feet, everywhere it could get. Dwalin didn’t know if it was his or the dragons. His face was burned in some places, and in others, gold flecks marred the skin, shining brightly through the thick blood. And at a quick glance, it seemed that his right cheek bore the brunt of the damage. He limped out of the doorway, leaning heavily on the cool stone as he panted. Dwalin had never seen a better sight. 

“The dragon, Smaug, is gone. The deed is done. He is dead.”

And with those words, the smile Dwalin had been holding back at the sight of Bilbo burst across his face. 

Erebor was theirs. The quest was over. They could rest. 

They were home now. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I almost made a few of the dwarves women because women are cool and I am one of them. (Specifically Kili, Bofur, Gloin, and Nori)... but I figured I wanted to stay true to the original... even though lesbian!Tauriel/Kili is super good


	15. Creator, Destroyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...you killed a dragon. What's next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooroo mates
> 
> anyhow, a new chapter, and so close to the last post. Get used to it! 
> 
> Nothing has really changed in my day to day, but the comments I have received on the last chapter have left me undeniably happy. I get butterflies in my stomach when I read them, so thank you to everyone who has been commenting. 
> 
> This chapter is intended as both a wind-down from the dragon fight, but also the rising of actions leading to the next arc of the story, so if it feels a little filler-y then that's why. 
> 
> The chapter title is after "Creator, Destroyer" by Angel Olsen on her album "Strange Cacti" (She has so many good songs, and I think her song Blacksmith works with the Bilbo/Thorin relationships you see in other fics)

.oOo.

Kili had never seen Erebor before. 

It had fallen way before he was even a concept, which was a weird thought. But now, they’re here. Inside the halls of his ancestors and parents. All of his anxieties about the quest failing were gone in an instant. 

The heavy, all consuming grief at the thought of his friend dying, and then the wickedness that Bofur had shared, it weighed heavy on his heart. Ideas he had never known about, nevermind considered were suddenly flashing in his head, and it joined his grief. His sorrows that his friend had a hard life, and the fact that he didn’t help him in the slightest dragged across his heart strings. He was shamefully reminded of the teasing and bullying he had done with Fili, purposely calling attention to Bilbo’s accent and making fun of his name and  _ knowing _ that he wouldn’t try to get them in trouble. 

He had been horrible. 

But now, he had a chance to remedy that. 

It still hadn’t set in, Bilbo’s words. How had the dragon died? Surely tiny little Bilbo couldn’t have done what an entire mountain of dwarves had failed to do. 

Tauriel stood silently next to him, her face not betraying her emotions regarding the situation. He wondered what her opinion of him was now. Now that she knew how cruel he could be.

One by one, they entered Erebor. It was just as he said. 

Thorin went first, followed by Dwalin, then Fili, himself, Balin, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Bilbo, then at the very end, Tauriel. Kili hated to be separated from her at such a time, but in the end was ultimately helpless against his Uncle’s glare. 

As far as first impressions went, Kili was unimpressed. 

The passageway was dark, cramped, and drafty. He supposed this would not be a common theme in Ereborian architecture, but it sure seemed as though the passageway went on forever. 

At the end of the tunnel, a horrific sight met the company. 

Blood covered a significant portion of the room, the catwalk it's corpse lay on was crumbled below it, a thick arrow plunged into the meat of its neck, where he supposed all the blood had come from. Melted gold lay in seemingly random piles, and distantly, he supposed that the gold on Bilbo’s hair and face and hands had to have come from somewhere. Halfway across the room, a large dent lay in an otherwise perfect mountain of gold, though there was blood covering it, a trail leading from there to the staircase below. 

Looking up, Kili saw scorch marks and blood on the ceiling. 

He was both impressed and terrified by the prospect of Bilbo killing the Dragon. If that was what he was truly never going to cross the Hobbit again.

“So ye killed it?” Nori asked. 

“Of course he did!” Ori defended, “Who else was in here to do it? The ghost of Durin? Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Kili looked to his right and was surprised to find Tauriel standing there silently, observing the scene in front of them. 

“I apologize for not finding the Arkenstone yet, but I figured if the dragon was dead, we would all be able to look without worry.” Bilbo stated, he sounded weary and exhausted. 

As if reading his mind, Oin jumped up. “Nonsense, Lad, ye killed the dragon! Now, sit down before you keel over dead. A terrible fate that would be, surviving a dragon but cracking yer skull on some marble stairs.” The Hobbit sat down heavily, wavering as he performed the command. 

The young dwarf stood where he was as Thorin made his way into the depths of the treasury. All thoughts of the dragon and his defeat left his mind at the sight before him. It was a thing of beauty. This much gold could carry his people and make them prosperous for years to come. No longer would they starve wondering which mannish town they would be turned away from for work. They had lived a hard life, exiled. 

Kili remembers a time when Thorin had to leave for months on end, coming back with his meager earnings and trying to support the entire colony of Ereborian refugees that dwelled in Ered Luin. Those times were marked with the tightening of belts and the gauntness of faces belonging to friends, family, and distant relations. 

He found that he no longer complained about rationing, and never took a good meal for granted. His humble beginnings, while they were hard to live through, had taught him some humility that he was proud to carry on. He could only hope that his humility and understanding of harder times could help him move forward now that they were in the pitfalls of wealth. 

Yes, he knew about the dangers of gold-sickness. His mother had explained to him and Fili just how dangerous the gold of Erebor could be, what it had done to his great-grandfather. He couldn’t allow it to befall his beloved Uncle, or any of the other dwarves. 

Tauriel’s hand was a comfort as they wound their fingers together. One was afraid for the future of the dwarves, and the other afraid for the future of the elves. 

.oOo.

Bifur was a quiet man. 

Not that he could really be anything else, what with his condition. 

In a world where only a few people could understand him, he found solace in silence. Even though the other dwarves knew Khuzdul, his particular dialect was one that most of the members of the company had not learned before the journey, and so even with members of his own race, he was reliant on Bofur to get his message across. Bofur, Mahal-bless him, took it all in stride and never once got mad or frustrated at his position as translator. 

Throughout the journey, it felt as though he had been pushed to the back, largely ignored. His family wasn’t noble, they weren’t as important. He was a widower, and one who couldn’t talk properly. 

So, as someone who had never hailed from Erebor in the first place, he sat down on the heavy stone steps outside of the large treasury doors. 

His wife had been from Erebor. Runa was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. She was kind, funny, and smart. She was everything and more. They had laughed as they took each other’s braids down every night. Her hair had been mousy brown and her eyes a stormy blue. Their daughter had been everything her mother was, but the little girl was brave. Braver than either of them, his little bear cub. With her father’s hair and her mother’s eyes, the little girl ran around bringing laughter everywhere. Even after his injury, the two had loved him unconditionally. Right until they got sick and wasted away without the proper medicines. 

Even though it had already been a couple of years, Bifur found that it was hard being in Erebor without Runa or Yrsa. He had no ties to this place, it felt wrong, disrespectful, to step foot in the halls where Runa’s parents died, where she should have lived before dying of old age in the distant future. 

He was losing himself in memories. 

He shook his head firmly and hid a wince as the ax shifted slightly. What he wouldn’t give to have it gone and out of his head. The medical advisor on the battlefield had left it there, unable to retract it whilst they were still on the battlefield. Many more dwarrow came in on the brink of death, and the ax had stemmed most of the bleeding and wasn’t likely to kill him and so it had been left there. 

Now, however, they were far away from that. And Bifur would remain in the background until the time came that he and his cousins were allowed to go back to Ered Luin. He doesn’t regret his decision to leave and follow Thorin, but he would like to return home to the graves of his family. 

He turned and watched through the doors as Bombur tripped on the last stair and face planted into the gold, only for Bofur to laugh at his younger brother’s misfortune. A smile made its way on his face. At least he still has them. 

Looking past his cousins, he saw Thorin and Dwalin picking through the coins together, no doubt trying to find the Arkenstone. Personally, he didn’t need the gold, or the jewels, or the Mahal-damned Arkenstone. All he wanted was enough wood to make toys for the impoverished children in the surrounding area. The poor, starving children of Esgaroth need something to bring them joy, and he can’t provide much more than a heartfelt and handcrafted toy. 

He just hoped that murmurs of gold-sickness were wrong, and that the king prevailed. 

.oOo.

Bard had heard the rumble from the mountain. 

He felt it like a shock through his heart. He shouldn’t have given away his father’s black arrow. It would have been their only line of defense, and now they had nothing. He was scared for his children, and briefly mourned the little boy who had asked for it. For surely the child was dead. 

He hated the dwarves deeply. He had found the bedraggled clothes hidden in the corner. They were thin, torn and ripped and dirty, smelling of river water and elven wine. But the clothes being there meant that Bilbo hadn’t a place to put them as Bard had previously thought, no they had been carefully hidden, not misplaced and forgotten. He had no clue what this message was, but he intended to find out, even if the boy had already passed on into the Hall of Waiting. 

The roar of the dragon had ended shortly after it had begun, a mere thirty minutes later. He felt fear like never before. The dragon would be coming for them. 

“Sigrid, watch over Tilda and Bain. Take cover, I will come back when it is safe.” His eldest daughter nodded. He was grateful she did, but hated himself for making her. She was not the younger children’s mother, she should never have had to act this way. He mourned his wife as he rushed out the front door. 

On the docks, he noticed the poorer people of the community gathering together and watching the mountain, no doubt waiting for the right moment to abandon Esgaroth for a place that was no doubt safer. 

He stood just behind them and watched the mountain. 

They stood there for hours, waiting for the dragon to emerge and burn them all to a crisp. A couple of the orphaned children that had no home had stood there, shivering and Bard bought them each wool shawls, knowing it wasn’t enough. 

Life on the lake was a hard one, but where else were they supposed to go?

It was approaching night fall and so far, no dragon had come for them. Bard could hardly believe it. What had happened? He needed to find out, to ensure the safety of the people around him and maybe even see if the city of Dale was far too damaged to receive inhabitants. 

He walked home slowly, trying not to draw attention to himself. 

“Sigrid, Bain, Tilda,” he said as he walked through the door. “We need to discuss something.”

“What, Da?” 

“What happened?”

“Is the dragon coming after us? Is he going to eat us whole?”

“Calm, we aren’t in any immediate danger.”

“Immediate?” Smart, smart Sigrid. She always knew what others were hiding. 

“Yes, immediate. The dragon hasn’t come yet, but that doesn’t mean us or any of the other people aren’t going to die because of the Master’s neglect. The townspeople are already starving, we have been starving.”

“Then what are we going to do, Da?” 

“We find our way to Dale and hope the dwarves have enough goodwill they will lend us aid. Surely the elves would help as well. We cannot go on much longer as we have. Without the threat of the dragon we might have a fighting chance.”

“Why are you telling us all this?” 

“I’m asking if you all would want to face a known danger, or face a new danger that may prove to be beneficial.”

The faces of his children were somber, serious, thoughtful. 

“If you think that this is for the best, I will go to Dale.” His Sigrid said, brave as all hell.

“Me too!” His enthusiastic little Tilda. 

“I will always follow you, Da.” Bain said, already growing up so fast.

He loved his children, and his people so much, he could only hope that he wasn’t leading them to their deaths. 

He told the people. They prepared to leave for Dale. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I love Bifur... he isn't in the movie a lot and I wish he was... I also wish I found more opportunities to write him in but oh well...
> 
> This is the last stop before the Battle of the five armies arc... so if you're bingeing and need a break- here you are! Go to the bathroom or get a snack and some water.


	16. I Still Feel As Though I Am Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the mountain reclaimed, the opportunity for madness runs rampant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sailors! 
> 
> Sorry for the late post, today has been very busy. It's my birthday! Anyway, here is the first chapter of the third arc. 
> 
> A lot of the song inspiration is dark and sad, reflecting the character's set of mind. There's lots of implications of mental illness but not a lot of discussion regarding how to help the mental illness. 
> 
> Chapter title is after "I Still Feel As Though I Am Me" by the Caretaker on the album "everywhere at the end of time"

.oOo.

The gold was calling to him. 

It did not matter that he hadn’t talked to anybody for two days. No, he had the gold to talk to. He needed nobody else. 

He spent his days in the treasury, running his hands through the golden coins and finery that surrounded him. The gems and the jewels and the goblets and crowns and necklaces, they were glorious, breathtaking, something beyond the banal slog of everyday life. 

At times, he would think the shimmering objects surrounding him were worth more than life, worth more than those around him, his companions. 

It was worth more than himself. 

But that was mad. 

He was king under the mountain. Thorin Oakenshield Durinson. King of the mountain, king of the dwarves. 

Now, all he needed was to support this claim. He needed the Arkenstone. Now that, that was more important than any living thing in the mountain. 

He was searching for it, not stopping for anything. 

He no longer felt hungry, he no longer felt tired. 

He needed the Arkenstone. 

He needed it. 

.oOo.

It had been a little under a week since he had slayed the dragon. 

He could tell something was wrong. 

The dwarves would wander around the treasury soullessly. It was odd, watching them all stumble mindlessly along the piles, searching aimlessly for the stone they all claimed was there somewhere. 

The whole room made him sick, the scent of decay and evil made him lose his stomach more than once. The elf, it seemed, shared the same illness and would not step foot in the treasury after the first time they went through it. 

So instead, they stayed in the throne room. 

“Tauriel?”

“Yes, Bilbo?”

“Do you know what’s happening? To the dwarves?”

They were sat on the suspended path directly in front of the throne. 

“I have a suspicion.”

“You fear it is Gold Sickness?”

“Yes.”

.oOo.

Some of the dwarves left the treasury. Gloin, Dori, Bifur, Bofur, Nori. Beijar hid as best as he could when this happened.

They seemed crueler, quicker to anger, easily provoked. 

Beijar had, on the first day, asked them what was wrong and they had sneered, asking why he stuck around when he hadn’t been needed. 

Unwilling to leave, but not wishing to stick around, he hid. 

The dark corners he found solace in didn’t hide him from his own mind. 

In his dreams, he found horrible, twisted creatures. They crawled around, possessing his body, rendering him helpless as his mind screamed out over and over. 

When he awoke from these dreams, the grand empty halls always surrounded him, were silent. Eerie. 

He would walk for hours and wouldn’t see another living soul. It seemed like a twisted, larger, colder version of Bag End, the version he grew familiar with after his parents died. 

But there was no Hamfast, and there was no Belle. There were no windows, no sunlight, no books and study. 

Not for the first time he wished he had never gone on this journey. This time however, he didn’t have the destruction of the dragon to anchor him to his duty, a contract holding him to a purpose. The overwhelming sense of accomplishment was short lived. He found he had no drive anymore, no direction. 

.oOo.

It had been a few days later, though Tauriel had not been keeping track, when the man Bard showed up at the front gates. 

“Elf, me and my people wish to speak to the dwarves regarding the financial wellbeing of the people of Dale.” He gestured behind him to a group of poorly people. Dirty, cold, and dressed in non-descript brown and grey rags. She found she could do no damage against these people and dreaded letting Bard know of the state of the dwarves. 

“I need to talk with you privately if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Aye, if it is necessary.”

“It is.”

“Very well then.”

Tauriel stepped across the threshold, worried she would be barred from re-entering the mountain the moment the dwarves heard wind of their visitors. 

“The king, Thorin. He is not well.”

“What befalls him.”

“A sickness of the mind, festering with the gold and aided by the decay of the dragon’s corpse.”

“What about the others? Surely they aren’t in a state similar?”

“I am afraid the only people in that mountain who are unaffected are me. And Bilbo.”

“So he lives?”

“Yes, a little worse for the wear after battling the dragon, but I believe him to be largely hale.”

“He fought the dragon? That little boy?”

“Yes, claimed it was his duty and went in alone. He withdrew from the mountain sometime later in quite the state, but after the initial shock, he seemed fine enough.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither, quite honestly.”

“And you are sure none of the dwarves will see reason.”

“I fear they are too far gone.”

“Then it is as I feared.”

The man in front of her looked saddened, upset, afraid. 

“What is it that troubles you, Master Bard?” Shocked at the knowledge of his name, the man took a second before responding.

“The people that have gathered here. We are refugees. The political and economic state of Esgaroth has failed its people for far too long, has failed me and my family. With the threat of the dragon behind us, I had made the foolish choice to uproot my family and my people to the ruins of the city of Dale in hopes that Dale’s wealth, accrued with the gold of Erebor, would be returned to its rightful place. Now I know this is not true, and I have no clue where our fate lies.”

At the admittance, Tauriel felt something deep within her stomach. She had felt sadness and pity before, but the depths of sorrow the man brought with him was something Tauriel had not seen in anyone but Bilbo, and even then she hadn’t talked to the halfling enough to feel it. 

She bowed her head in shame. She could do nothing. She stated this aloud to Bard, expecting anger. 

“I understand, Thorin’s gold-sickness is something I had feared as we embarked that morning, what felt like so long ago. So much has changed. Circumstances are different now. It is simply the way of life. I understand this now better than ever.”

She looked on in shock as the man left her presence to gather the poor and huddled masses that had amassed in front of the large, broken gates of Erebor. 

She held back tears for the death of a people. 

.oOo.

It had started raining. 

Big fat drops, cold and oily had poured down from above. The winds blowing up from the south permeated the mountain and rendered the once warm stone cold. The heat the dragon had produced, which had, at one point, made Beijar hot beyond belief, had left them to the chill of the coming winter. 

He gathered his mildew scented coat closer to his thinning body. Their food stores were largely lacking and the grain that had been abandoned in the flee from the wrath of Smaug had rotted and been eaten by large fat rodents that the dragon had most likely snacked on. They subsisted off of a diet of hard biscuits they had gained from somewhere in the journey. Beijar honestly didn’t know where the stale and dense discs of grain and oat had come from, but he ate them nonetheless. 

He suspected Tauriel left to hunt for her own food rather than living off of the low quality cram. He didn’t blame her, he would too if he had actually cared. The dwarves, it seemed, didn’t care either. They ate their rations mindlessly before returning to the treasury where they wasted away hours upon hours sifting through coins and wondering at the fortune. 

They hadn’t even noticed the rain. Nor did they notice the people of Lake Town gathering at the still broken front gate. Beijar, shame faced, had hidden from the thin and dirty faces of men, women, and children. The misery of others had only reflected his own and he fell into cycles of wretchedness where he could hardly distinguish anything around him other than his wish to be anywhere else. 

The people had left days ago, cold and hungry. Now they were sheltering in the city of Dale where they were no doubt getting cold and soaked through. 

The thought of Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain getting sick from the chill and the wet had knotted his stomach and he knew he had to do something. 

He had put others before himself before, even when they were less than deserving of it. So there was no reason he couldn’t advocate for the poor people who genuinely needed help. 

He gathered his wits from the depths of despair and tried to channel the bravery he felt the instant he had struck the dragon. He made his way to the treasury, intent on marching directly up to one Thorin Oakenshield and demanding the people of Dale get their money back. 

The dwarves were mindlessly walking about, muttering under their breaths to themselves and hardly acknowledging Beijar beyond glaring from afar. No matter, he thought, and walked up to the King. He was staring at a rather ugly crown. Dwalin, who was usually never far from his husband, was nowhere in sight. 

He had a big fur coat on that Beijar had never seen before. 

“Thorin.” No response. “Thorin.” He repeated, firmly. 

“What?” He yelled. Beijar shrank back. “Oh, Bilbo. I didn’t recognize you.” Confused, Beijar didn’t respond. “What is it you need, halfling?” He flinched at the slur. 

“Well… you see… It’s the people of Dale.”

“Dale? It can’t be. Dale is gone. Destroyed by the wyrm Smaug.”

“Bard has taken the people of Lake Town and they have relocated to Dale. They are there now, huddled in its ruins.”

Thorin’s reaction was a glare and a grunt. 

“Alright then, and what of it? Dale is not my city, Erebor is.” 

Beijar took a deep breath, ignoring the facts that Thorin was repeating to him. 

“Yes… Well you see… Their money was taken during the desolation of Smaug, and stored here in the treasury with the wealth of Erebor. I just ask that we give them what is their due.” Thorin’s face grew red in rage. 

“And why should I? Why should I help those that only seek to help themselves? What did they do when Erebor was ripped from our grasp, what did they do when hundreds of Dwarrow perished at not only the fire of the dragon but the starvation of Exodus?” He dropped the crown and walked right up to Beijars face. His mouth smelled of rot and decay. “I will not give them any of the gold I have worked for.”

“You think their people haven’t died in dragon fire? Haven’t starved? You saw the conditions they were forced to live in at the hands of the master in Lake Town. Would you condemn an entire village, an entire town of people because you can't get over your selfishness?” 

Thorin smacked Beijar across the face, sending him a few feet through the air. The gold and burns that were still melted on his face throbbed in pain as he clutched his reddening face. He stood up quickly, not willing to let Thorin see him weak. 

“I am allotted one fourteenth of the fortune for my part in the quest, yes?” 

“I don’t see why that matters.”

“I’m giving my fourteenth to Bard and the people of Dale, or have you so quickly forgotten how Bard helped us get here?”

“I have not forgotten, nor will I allow you to waste your share. Now leave my presence before I do something I will regret.”

Not one to push when something is futile, Beijar turned and ran. 

Before he reached the heavy treasury doors, he saw the pained glances Dwalin sent to both him and Thorin before he turned back to kicking gold coins. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gold Gold Gold, yeehaw and thanks for reading


	17. I Lost Something in the Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold Sickness has set in and the current state of affairs aren't looking so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> The world is a very scary place right now, especially if you are living in America. The riots and protests going on are scary, but not as horrific as the lack of justice. That's all I will say about it because I understand if you all want to be distracted from it, I do too. 
> 
> So here is the good news: I am finishing up the last chapter/epilogue! So posting will continue as it has until the story is over. 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed the story so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. 
> 
> Chapter Title is after "I Lost Something in the Hills" by Sibylle Baier

.oOo.

It seemed, at times, that he couldn’t recognize himself. 

He didn’t understand the forward track of his thinking. He felt trapped in the back of his head, at the mercy of what he was certain was gold sickness. He couldn’t control his actions, couldn’t control his tongue, couldn’t control his thoughts. 

In the moments when his head cleared enough, he felt tears hot and heavy run down his tired face. He wished that Dwalin was here to knock some sense into him. He couldn’t find Dwalin when he had momentary clearness, and in the depths of his madness he didn’t seem to  _ want _ to find his dearly beloved. 

He couldn’t remember the protocols. They had discussed, in depth, what was to occur if the mountain had been regained and he fell to the same sickness that clutched his late grandfather’s mind. 

Thror. Later in his life, he had been a bastard, not worthy of carrying the name of Durin. But Thorin can remember a time in his life where his grandfather was his Sigin’Adad. Remembers sitting on his lap when he was just a youngling, not yet sure of himself, didn’t understand the world around him, could not comprehend the ramifications of his actions just yet. His Sigin’Adad had been a steady rock in a tumultuous youth. Thorin’s father, even before going mad and disappearing during Azanulbizar, had never been quite sound of mind. He would hole up for days on end, or would leave for months without telling anybody where he had gone. 

His mother, who had died in childbirth with Frerin, had been a distant figure in his memory. It was left to his Sigin’Adad and Sigin’Amad to raise him and his siblings, a job not made easy in addition to running a kingdom. 

Before Smaug had attacked, his Grandfather had shown signs that he was beginning to slip mentally. He negated beneficial deals out of paranoia, spent days walking through the treasury silently examining coins. Other days he would scream until he was purple in the face about shifty council members. His state was not aided by the passing of his wife. 

As much as Thorin had felt horrified, and grief ridden and nauseated when his Grandfather was killed, he had felt even more sickened at himself afterwards for his relief. 

Now, he can empathize with his grandfather in a way he had never been able to before. Trapped in his own mind, the moments of clarity became fewer and far between. 

He gave up hope of ever leaving the labyrinthine thought patterns of his disease-addled head. 

.oOo.

Tauriel had made it back into the mountain safely and without notice after the visit the new people of Dale graced them with. It seemed as though the dwarves hadn’t even realized they had come, so lost in their minds as they were. 

Some days after, when she was left to her own devices, and going for long bouts of time not talking to another living soul, she wondered why she had ever decided to join the dwarves. 

She had not known what was to come after she followed the orcs to Esgaroth following an attack on Greenwood. She didn’t know what would have happened if she would have stayed in the Greenwood. Would they have ever found the door that led to the destruction of the dragon, and subsequently the dwarves' descent into madness? She was not sorry the dragon was dead, but her involvement in it seemed questionable. Surely without her they still would have found the door. 

Her sweet Kili would have found it. 

The thought sent a wave of melancholia through her. The wind blew cold and she shivered without a proper covering. Kili hadn’t so much as looked at her since their arrival two weeks ago.

She jumped down from her perch, watching as Bilbo scrambled around afraid in the corner of her vision. The sight was not all that unfamiliar. Being left alone with her thoughts was a dangerous game, maybe a change of scenery would do her some good.

“Tauriel.” She jumped in shock at the sound of another’s voice. Turning, she saw Kili poking his head out of the large treasury doors. The sight made her heart swell against her will. Was he better?

He walked forward, the heavy doors shutting quite finally behind him. She hoped this was a sign that he had overcome sickness for her. He had overcome that which was slowly killing him. 

“Kili, my love.”

“Tauriel, Amrâlimê.” He fished something from a pocket. 

A circlet, the color of the stars above. Never before had she seen such a beautiful piece. 

“This is for you,” he said quietly. “I had hoped to forge you something when I asked, but I found this and my thoughts were of nothing but you.” 

“Asked what?” she whispered reverently. She kneeled down in front of the shorter man, putting them at eye level. 

“Will you court me? Be my wife, sometime in the future?” Tears sprung up in her eyes. These weeks spent in solitude, she could have never hoped, never dared to. She never once had the thought that their relationship was going on too fast. 

She had no family left, had been alone on her own for centuries, and other than Legolas, she had no friends. When she met Kili for the first time, what felt like years ago in the dungeons of Mirkwood, she had felt they had shared something. A certain understanding of the world they had built around themselves. Perhaps it was something to do with the both of them yearning for something other than the monotony of daily life. Her life had grown boring, and from her discussions with Kili, his life before the quest had been one of hardships. Maybe, when this mess was well and truly over and more Dwarves came to the mountain, they would be allowed to travel together farther than any other. North, South, East, West. She found, in her heart, she would willingly spend every day of the rest of her life with the dwarf in front of her, and never tire of it. 

“Yes, Kili, I will court you.” He placed the circlet atop her head, gentle as he ran his hand through the fiery strands after it was placed. He stayed there for a long while as Tauriel kept her head bowed and resting on the chest of her love, enjoying the soft touches of the other.

“Tauriel?”

“Yes, my love?”

“You… You cannot be her. She is far away. She…she is far, far away from me. She walks in starlight in another world. It was just a dream.” Confused, the elf looked up and into the now cloudy brown eyes of her newly betrothed. She was stunned into silence. “Do you think she could’ve ever loved me?”

She would not answer, could not. Her heart jumped to her throat and the tears in her eyes were no longer those of happiness. 

Her dwarf turned around and without a backwards glance, drifted back into the treasury doors. 

This time, they were silent as they closed behind a life Tauriel had only just started to accept that she could have. She took the circlet off the next day, feeling nothing but hatred towards the object, a reminder that this life was closed off to her once more. 

.oOo.

Beijar had never stopped trying to get the gold for Bard and his people. 

Days and days had passed and he knew that the people couldn’t wait any longer for aid. 

He would sit and try and plan, and then would get distracted by something or other, or a dwarf would come and shoo him off before he could get too close to the large gilded doors that stood between him and the wellbeing of the people of Dale. 

He scattered around and hid like a diseased rat. This comparison did not serve to boost his already low self-esteem. 

Tauriel, another entity who was not allowed anywhere in or around the treasury, largely kept to herself and would spend her days sitting atop the parapets, looking out to the surrounding valley, though what it seemed she was searching for, he could not guess. A couple of days ago she had climbed to the vantage point with a silver steel circlet on her head and tears in her eyes. The next day the circlet was gone. He could not bring himself to join her in her sorrow. 

The slam of doors somewhere behind him had made the Haltija jump. He wondered what was happening Tauriel jumped from the parapet and made her way over to the niche Beijar was hidden in, unnerving him with the prospect that he wasn’t as hidden as he would've liked to think. 

“What’s happening?” He asked. 

“Dwalin, he’s heading for the gates, for what reason I know not.”

They waited in silence as the surly dwarf climbed up to the walkway above the large gates and peered out. His brow creased in what appeared to be anger and he turned around before he stormed back to the treasury. 

“Thorin, the people from Lake-town, they’re streaming into Dale. There’s hundreds of them.”

A loud shout accompanied by the loud creaking if the door and several footsteps sounded through the largely empty halls. 

“I want this Fortress made safe by sun-up. This Mountain was hard-won, I will not see it taken again.”

Beijar couldn’t do this anymore. He had already told Thorin of the occupation of Dale, of their plight. He walked forward from his spot in the shadows. Tauriel had attempted to tug him back, but the weak stitching of his coat did nothing more than rip in her grasp. He couldn’t care less. 

“The people of Lake-town have nothing. They came to us in need. They have lost everything.”

“They have left their life of their own volition. We didn’t make them relocate.” 

“Do I need to remind you what they have lost at the hands of their cruel and selfish master?”

“Do not tell me what they have lost. I know well enough of hardship. They have much to be grateful for.” After a couple of moments, the dwarf swung around “What are you still doing here? Leave!”

Beijar, cowed, slithered back to his hiding place. Tauriel silently placed a hand upon his shoulder in a show of companionship. 

It seemed as though everything they had been through, all of the development they had experienced together, and their final acceptance of him had all disappeared. He found some measure of solace in the steady and unwavering hand of the elf that towered above him. 

When the sun had set and the distant fires of the people of Dale shone, Thorin had demanded more stone be accrued for the final touches of their crudely constructed barricade that blocked the large main door. 

The night sky peeked in through the parapets, bathing the stone in blue moonlight. 

.oOo.

Thranduil was not a kind man. 

Nor did he set up the pretense that he was any type of sympathetic. In fact, he was well aware of his reputation as a particularly cold and unforgiving man, certainly a subversion from others of his race. 

But he could care less. 

He hadn’t always been cold and cruel, he had been a loving husband and attentive father before the torture and torment of his wife in Angmar had left the maiden vacant, a mere shell of the woman he had fallen in love with. He had tried to send her away to heal and sail to the undying lands where Elrond’s wife was sent after her near death in battle. However, before he had even started to band together a guard to accompany, Yathanaie had already perished, tormented by the memories of what happened to her. 

In the years prior, Thranduil had been overcome with grief. 

Now, 2,000 years later, he was mean and his heart had closed to the plight of any but his own. 

So, it was this mean-heartedness that had driven him to bring the food to the starving refugees that had run from Esgaroth and that walrus they called a master. Honestly, he couldn’t quite blame them, but it didn’t matter. The people were starving and if he even wanted a chance to have a beneficial relationship with the Lord of Dale, Bard, then he needed to get them to rely on him. 

It didn’t hurt that Dale was on the way to another errand he needed to attend to.

“My lord Thranduil, we did not know to look for you here.” He smiled at the naivety of Bard. 

“I heard you needed aid.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. 

He signalled and a great many carts of produce and animals were brought into the gates of the once proud city. 

“You have saved us. I do not know how to thank you.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced. I did not come on your behalf. I came to reclaim something of mine.” He hummed to himself. “Tell me. Has the dwarf fallen to Gold-sickness yet?”

“I am afraid so, my lord. An elf by the name of Tauriel came from within and informed me we should not expect the help of the dwarves at this time.”

So that was where his little captain wandered off to. He had begun to wonder what sort of trouble she had gotten into, not that he particularly cared but she was more competent than some of his other captains.

“You would go to war with the dwarves over some gold?”

“This is not something so simple as gold. The White Gems of Lasgalen are rightfully mine, and stolen from me by Thror many years before the dragon came.” He smirked “And it won’t be a war. Not when they only number thirteen and I have 3,000 men. It would be much more like a slaughter.”

“Please, we are allies. The gold of Dale, it is in that mountain, sequestered with the wealth of Erebor. Without it, not even your goodwill will be enough for me and my people to stay afloat. Let me try speaking with the dwarves again.”

“You would try and reason with them? In the depths of their madness? I cannot say I envy you.”

“I would, if only to end any unnecessary deaths.”

“Very well then, if you insist.”

.oOo.

“Nice going lads, nice work. Come on!”

The barricade for the main gate was finally finished. A large pile of loose stone sat heavy in front of the only doors that led in and out of the mountain, except for the hidden door of course, but Beijar didn’t stock too much hope in that. 

He had missed his only opportunity to help the people of Dale. He had failed. 

He crawled away from the gates and hid in the large throne room, atop one of the tall statues, remembering how it felt to have always been that high up from the ground. 

He stared at the cold and silent stone, as if maybe it had the answer he sought for his dilemma. 

.oOo.

Later on, he had heard from Tauriel that the dwarves had met with the Mirkwood elves and Bard. However, it seemed less like they met the ‘enemy’, and more like the elves and men had shown up at the gate and had attempted to negotiate their fair share of treasure. 

There was yelling from all parties, threats from most, and apologies from one. 

“The words of Thorin Oakenshield will be remembered by my lord Thranduil. Even though he is lost in the dragon sickness, I believe he would have behaved the same. Some faults can’t be blamed on outside influence.”

“And so what? We just let him declare war on the elves and starving men? They are nothing more than fishers.”

“His exact words were ‘Begone! Ere our arrows fly!’.”

“Even so, we number only fifteen in the mountain, including you and I, and I know for a fact that neither one of us is fighting, what makes him think that they would not be overpowered? Thirteen mind-sick and foolish dwarves against an army of elves and a village of people? The gold sickness has gone farther than I thought.”

Seeing that Tauriel had come to the same conclusion, they stayed silently sitting down, determined to try and forget, even for a moment what mess they had dug themselves into. 

“You know, I had thought once that I knew why I had joined the dwarves on their quest.” His companion sat silently, attentive. “To find a purpose, to fight a dragon, to find a place to belong.” He sighed. “I was a fool. I left behind a place where I could play my small part, could ignore the disparaging comments and thinly veiled hate, I had friends. It seems, on this journey, I have only found heartbreak.” 

“Perhaps we are not so different.” Tauriel said silently. “In Greenwood, I am captain of the guard, but my fellow soldiers have their own groups and own friends. I wasn’t left out, per se, but neither was I included. I wasn’t hated, but neither was I loved. I had a friend, but his loyalty to his father and king came before me. I found love, a feeling above all others, and a wish to find something else in life, and now… I don’t believe I rightly have it anymore, the love or the hope.”

“I think we are a couple of fools.”

“I think you are right.”

.oOo.

Later on, Beijar bumped into Thorin, who had wandered into the throne room. 

“Halfling, what are you doing in here?”

“N-nothing,” he explained, consciously not letting his arm move up to his neck to mess with the loose hair there, nor did he let himself run his thumb over his knuckles to pop the joints like he had so loved doing before his hands had either burned or broken. 

“Well if you are doing nothing, then why aren’t you helping out?”

“With what?”

“Gathering supplies.” 

Supplies? What for? What kind of supplies? Any food would have turned to dust by now, and the blankets and textiles would be moth bitten and moldy. The weapons would have rusted over decades with no proper care, and the forges had long gone cold. There wasn’t anything he could have conceivably gathered except for stone from the ruins of stone walls and pillars lining what must have been densely populated areas of an Erebor long ago. 

The thought that there might still be the remnants of the bodies of the deceased made Beijar both sad and sick. He, after all, had experience burying the bodies of those who had been deceased for months. 

Noticing he was retracting into his mind once more, he came back to the present to the sight of Thorin’s glare. 

“What supplies am I to gather?”

“Weapons, armor, food, anything you can find. Dain and his army are steadfastly approaching and we need everything we can find. The treasure in this Mountain does not belong to the people of Lake-town. This gold…is ours, and ours alone. With my life I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it.”

  
  


That was certainly a disheartening thought. His earlier conversation with Tauriel came back to mind and his earlier assumption that the dwarves would have given up due to lack of an army was being quickly disproven. Obviously Thorin had no qualms of summoning an army to fight the elves and slaughter the innocent. 

Events were moving more quickly than Beijar had time to think about them. 

.oOo.

Thorin had returned to the wall with the rest of the dwarves. 

The throne room, and the treasury were left untouched. Not a soul but Beijar were there. 

Tauriel had told the Haltija earlier that she had found a room left largely undamaged where she wished to spend the rest of the night alone. Not one to begrudge another for want of solitude, he was happy to leave her be. 

However, now her absence was a bad thing. 

Minutes after Thorin had left with the unclear order of ‘gathering supplies’, Beijar had come up with a plan. 

Simple, dangerous, most likely to end with him exiled from the kingdom. 

He would take his chances. It was for the betterment of the dwarves, the elves, and the people of Dale. 

He grabbed a sack in the corner of the treasury where he had absconded and began shovelling as much gold as he could into the satchel. He wished Tauriel could have been a lookout to make sure he wasn’t caught before he could carry through with his idea. 

The gold felt wrong under his hands, felt wrong melted onto his face, and burned into his hair. He didn’t know how to explain it other than comparing it to the chilling statue that stood marking the beginning of the path through Mirkwood. 

Despite this, he continued to shovel the riches until the bag could hold no more.

Now, though, the coins surrounding the area had cascaded down, reminding Beijar of the fight with the dragon. The heavy tinkling of the precious metals reminded him of the moment he had been buried beneath them, at its mercy as molten metal nearly missed his eyes. 

The memories were unpleasant, but these days that was the only kind of memory he could scrounge up. Even happier memories were tinted with sorrow and pain. 

When he finally emerged from his thoughts, cursing his habit of losing himself within his mind, he had found his eyes locked on a glowing white rock and the breath was taken from him. 

The Arkenstone. 

The stone felt alive, pulsating and breathing as Beijar held it within his hands. The glow of the rock warbled and cried, moving this way and that underneath the glassy surface. No wonder Thorin had been looking endlessly for days, he could never imagine losing it. 

‘ _ But wait a minute. _ ’ A voice in his head told him, ‘ _ This feels… wrong. This feels… like the ring. _ ’ 

So what was he to do, he didn’t really remember the ring, only the part where his throat burned and then he was stumbling his way through the depths of the cave, that felt similarly alive. It felt like the Arkenstone. 

Now, he was under no illusions, however. It was just a pretty rock. Sure it had enchantments on it, but so did many other objects of great importance. So then what was he supposed to do with it? 

He stuffed it into an inside pocket of the singed blue coat Bard had given him all that time ago, when he had nothing to his name but a fever. 

He would find a use for the stupid, enchanted stone later. 

For now, he would need to run.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though she wasn't in the books, I love Tauriel so much.


	18. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the coming of Gandalf comes the threat of war. With gold-sickness on the mind, how will anybody get anything done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Sorry I forgot to post yesterday, it wasn't until late last night that I realized what day it was! Anyway now you get an update today and tomorrow. The world is a very weird place right now. A lot of injustice is happening, and it breaks my damn heart that what should have been over decades ago is still a problem now. 
> 
> Anyway, this story is coming to its final climax and then its gonna come down and then it will be over. I hope you all are excited! 
> 
> Chapter title is after "Aurora" by Hans Zimmer

.oOo.

Gandalf had seemed panicked as he rode into the ruins of Dale. 

This greatly unsettled Bard, who had only heard of the valiant wizard through tales told by his late father. In the stories, the wizard rode around middle earth, helping any and all who needed it. He was unlike any of the other wizards in that regard. His father, who had been just a boy when  _ his _ father had died, had remembered in great detail the stories of the wizards passed down through generations from the time his ancestors had ruled over the city of Dale. 

Now, however, it seemed the grey wizard was the harbinger of something more insidious. 

“Let me through! Make way!” he shouted, his white steed galloping through the narrow streets, dodging the pedestrians with great ease despite its great speed. “Who’s in charge here?” he boomed, seeming quite urgent. 

Bard stepped up. 

“Gandalf Greyhame. I am Bard of Dale. What do you need?”

“An audience with whoever is in charge, I have a matter most urgent.”

“Very well, I will lead you to Thranduil’s tent, he resides just outside of the city.”

.oOo.

“You must set aside your petty grievances with the Dwarves. War is coming. The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re all in mortal danger.”

Bard had been roped into staying with the quirk of an eyebrow from the elven king and quickly sat down, feeling miles out of his league and ill prepared for the news Gandalf delivered. 

His people could not afford a war. They were too weak, too poor to continue on even without a battle, and now the valley would be thrown into such turmoil? 

“What are you talking about?” His mouth moved without being conscious of it. 

Thranduil threw a pitying smile towards him and Bard greatly wished he was respected, even if he was just a mortal man sitting like a dumb child between some of the oldest beings he had ever met. 

“I can see you know nothing of wizards. They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance braking hard in alarm. But sometimes a storm is just a storm.” The words seemed soothing by his tone of voice, but he was acting like he was explaining things to a child. Gandalf, it seemed, did not like the patronising act either. 

“Not this time. Armies of Orcs are on the move. These are fighters, they have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?”’

“Because we forced him. We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor, Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the Mountain, not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the North. If that fell Kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall.” 

A stone in Bard's stomach dropped at the words. The entirety of middle earth wiped out in a sole instant, stemming from a war that was quickly approaching. 

He had never expected to be involved in a historic event. Reading books from the past and hearing of the battles the elves had fought, it all seemed so distant, so unattainable. He thought the changing of history would be a lot slower, a lot safer, and a lot less stressful. He would probably not have books written about his deeds, nor would his children be lauded for acts of bravery. They were the mere background characters of something yet to befall them. The thought was as terrifying as it was sobering. 

“These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir, where are they?” 

“They can’t be any farther than Gundabad, but they will march without stopping. We have, at most, four days before they reach us and the valley is plundered into battle. I have requested the aid of allies of mine, but have not heard word from any.”

“Then we shall prepare.”

.oOo.

Beijar snuck around in the dark of the night. 

The dwarves had all retreated into the treasury and Beijar had hidden himself and the gold in the ruins of what must have been the market place. 

The air was dusty here, thick with decay and despair. 

The people here, who had perished trying to flee, had been left to rot where they fell. 

Beijar walked around silently, stashing his treasure underneath the tattered awning of a cart, crushed by stone. 

The empty hall felt full of the spirits left behind. 

He had never been superstitious, always believing, hoping that the souls of the dead had been returned to their maker. Now, he could feel the eyes of hundreds on him as he walked sadly through the remains of a once prosperous civilization. 

It was easy to forget the mark, the desolation of Smaug when one was caught up in political espionage, hidden away in empty rooms. 

Amongst his victims, it was hard to find the strength to go on. 

Tears sprung from his eyes at the sight of a little tiny pink shoe. He picked it up and held it lovingly. It was soot stained and covered in dust from years without contact, but it had once been loved. Runes—a name—had been inscribed into the little sole and the button hole that closed the shoe had been stretched. An ink stain marked the toe. 

The hand of someone long dead reached out to him from under a boulder. It begged him for mercy, for escape, for a reprieve that Beijar could not grant them. 

Sorrow lodged deep in his throat and he silently cried. For the lives lost to the dragon, the lives lost to a conflict that wasn’t theirs. 

The little girl whose shoe had been lost was long gone, erased from memories by time. 

He wanted to remember them, even if he hadn’t known them. 

A pot of dirt had been spilled, footsteps running through the mess and trailing on. 

Bones littered the shops, cowering behind broken market stands, crushed under rubble, left under a pile of ash. 

He fell to his knees in the middle of the street and prayed to Mahal, for the dead were his children. Words slipped soundlessly from his lips, dripping with the tears streaming down his face. The only sound in these forsaken halls were that of his hiccuping breath. 

It had felt like hours later that he had felt the cold wind brush against his face. There were no dwarves, no elves, no men, no wizards, not even a Hobbit. 

It was just him and the many souls of the damned that followed. 

He climbed down the ramparts, straining his back with the heavy weight of the gold he had stolen from those he had briefly considered his friends. 

He walked silently with the weight of hundreds of eyes on his back, following him as he walked tirelessly to the city of Dale. 

.oOo.

“...agree with this? Is gold so important to you? Would you buy it with the blood of Dwarves?”

The angry voice of Gandalf sounded from the tent Beijar found himself in front of. 

He had met no resistance or acknowledgment during his final journey, and was glad of that. 

“It will not come to that. This is a fight they cannot win,” Bard said confidently. Beijar felt another ache in his heart. 

Beijar stepped into the tent, needing no announcement of his arrival. 

“That won’t stop them. You think the Dwarves will surrender? They won’t. They will fight to the death to defend their own.” His eyes felt sore from the hours of crying, and his heart felt as though it were made out of stone. 

“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf said, surprised. 

“Yes, It’s me.” He stood impatiently. “Bard, you know perfectly well what illness befalls the company of dwarves under that mountain.” 

“And you feel you are exempt from their sickness?”

“Why else would I bring you this?” He asked, slinging the bag that hung from his shoulder to Bard’s feet. “This is my share of the treasure, given to you for the betterment and rehabilitation of your people and your city.” 

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“What happened to you, dear boy? You have changed drastically since my eyes have last fallen on you.”

Beijar lowered his head and fiddled with his fingers. He took a breath in. 

“Indeed. Fighting a dragon will do that.” He gestured to his gold burned face. “Melted on, impossible to get off without removing the skin underneath it.” The three other members of the tent flinched at that. Shocked into silence, Gandalf was the only one that spoke. 

“You fought the dragon? Dear boy, I would have never thought it.”

“I signed the contract, I did my duty.”

“Peace, I was not admonishing you. And it seems you went above your duty, I recall the contract only stating you had to steal the Arkenstone from the dragon before returning from its den to await an army.” 

“We both know that such a plan was impossible. Killing it would have been a lot easier.”

He earned several looks of astonishment. 

“Are you perhaps the same child that had been felled with disease and unconscious for two weeks in my healing halls?” 

“I am not a child, I’m a Hobbit, and have been for thirty and three years.”

“Nevertheless, it seems your deeds are many.” 

And suddenly, Beijar got the worst idea he has ever had. More so than standing up to the orcs on that ledge, or hiding from trolls, or trying to plead with stone giants. 

He pulled the Arkenstone from inside his coat. 

Gasps rang out from the room as the glow of the stone was revealed. 

“The Heart of the Mountain. The King’s jewel.”

“That must be worth a king’s ransom.”

“For the use of barter, I give this to you, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.”

“How is it yours to give?” Beijar smiled at Bard. 

“It isn’t.” He sighed and looked back down at the stone. “I’m not doing it for you. Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you were owed. There will be no need for war.” The words poured from his mouth, weaving together before he registered what he was saying. “I’ve seen second hand the effect greed can produce. Kingdoms have fallen, people have died. Battles have been forged and fought. This greedy little stone, so small and yet so powerful. Its enchantment is stronger than one may think to know. For the betterment of the dwarves, the betterment of Dale, and Greenwood, I relinquish it to you.”

He dropped the stone into the larger, waiting hand of the elven King. 

“Do not keep it. I will know.”

The spirits at his back shuddered as the power of the stone left Beijar’s body. 

He turned around and walked out of the tent, he had nowhere to go. He could not yet go back to the sickness that permeated the large and empty halls of Erebor. Could not yet face the disaster of those fallen. 

He was terrified. 

“Rest up tonight. You must leave on the morrow.” Beijar jumped at the wizard’s voice. 

“Why?”

“Get as far away from here as possible.”

“I cannot.”

“Oh? And why is this?”

“I fear I have nowhere else. I signed my life to the company on the journey my people insisted you ask me to go on. I am the fourteenth man. The lucky number.”

“There is no company, not any more. And I don’t like to think what Thorin would do when he finds out what you’ve done.”

“I am not afraid of Thorin.”

That wasn’t true. In his other form, he wasn’t afraid of Thorin, but now in his starved, weary, broken state, he was vulnerable and weak. 

“Well, you should be. Don’t underestimate the evil of gold. Gold over which a serpent had long brooded. Dragon-sickness seeps into the hearts of all who came to this Mountain. Almost all.”

He knew all too well the mark of the dragon and the sickness of the heart. 

His mother, after all, had died with a similar madness marring her mind. 

.oOo.

Beijar had snuck back to the mountain when dawn had just begun to peak over the eastern horizon. 

The spectres of the hall still followed him and he had accepted his new role, it felt only right to bring closure to these people, and even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel them around him, watching curiously to see his next course of action. 

Beijar, however, did not know what this was going to be. 

He hid himself, as was habit, and waited for the dwarves to rouse and come back to the ramparts. They would inevitably find out what he had done, and he was well aware they would show him no mercy, not that he felt he deserved it anyway. 

It was a couple of hours later when the sun had fully risen and sat dimly in the sky. Its vibrance was absent and the day seemed dreary. The clouds in the sky were dark but few. 

He must have dozed off for some time, as the next time he opened his eyes the sun had reached the middle of the sky, though could not be sure—the sky was overcast. 

The dwarves were lined up at the parapets, glares and scowls sat heavily on their faces. He heard a marching from the other side of the stone wall and quietly made his way to the nearest opening, watching as elves in full battle gear and heavily armed lined up in their ranks. 

A pit of dread made itself known in his stomach. Had he not given the Arkenstone and betrayed the company just so this very thing would not happen?

Looking over at the dwarf king, he had a bow and an arrow drawn, staring angrily at Thranduil. The elf king stopped and peered up at the dwarves from atop his elk, sneering at the sight. 

Thorin let loose the arrow. It landed in front of the large and unnecessary, but nonetheless graceful elk. 

“I will put the next one between your eyes.” This was followed by cheers, threats, and then finally the elves stood at ease.

“We’ve come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered and accepted.” 

“What payment? I gave you nothing. You have nothing.”

Thranduil smirked, removing the Arkenstone from under his flowing robes and held it out. 

“Nothing? Is that what you think the Arkenstone is?”

“They have the Arkenstone. Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king.” Kili shouted, incensed.

Beijar looked below at the crowd below. 

Thranduil, Bard, Sigrid, Gandalf, Legolas, the entire elven army. It certainly was not looking hopeful for him or the dwarves. 

“The King may have it, with our good will.” Thranduil said, and even with the numerous beings making up the crowd, everyone was silent. Beijar hoped his beating heart was not as loud to others as it was to him. “But first he must honor his word. The gems, if you please?” 

“They’re taking us for fools. This is a ruse, and a filthy lie. The Arkenstone is in this Mountain, it is a trick!”

Everything around him was quickly dissolving, and no amount of bargaining or pleading between the two parties would wield any great result. It seemed the effort was futile. The one thing he had thought that might have helped prevent a war between the two, possibly three races was now not working. He knew what he had to do, but now he is wondering if he has the bravery to do it. 

He stood to his full height, unimpressive as it was and walked over to the fuming king. 

“It-it’s no trick. The stone is real. I gave it to them.”

“You?” He turned fully towards Beijar, who in turn shrunk a little “You would steal from me?” 

“I had no choice, it was either this or war.” His excuse was just that, an excuse. “I-I was going to give it to you, but with it, there was no telling how much further into madness you would descend. You were already questioning the loyalty of your kin. Something I know a sane Thorin would never do.”

Indeed, he had overheard many of the dwarf’s rambling claims from dark corners and crevices. 

“You speak to me of loyalty? Of madness?” His eyes grew wide with anger, and his face turned red. The gentle but noble slopes of his face that had softened towards Beijar on the carrock, and again at Beorn’s was nowhere to be seen. 

“Throw him from the rampart!” He commanded. Beijar felt like he was going to throw up, but what could he? He had not eaten in two days. 

“Please, please, please. Don’t, please.” He pleaded quietly in fear. 

The dwarves around him didn’t move, but neither were they jumping to help. 

“Fine. I have no choice but to do it myself.”

The king grabbed Beijar’s thin arm, pulling him forward before seizing his scarred neck. The marks marring the tender flesh pulsated in pain as pressure was applied and he was lifted into the air and dangled over nothing. 

The dwarves looked blank, empty, uncarring. Tauriel was missing, and he dearly hoped she had the sense to leave the mountain and never return. The only things within those vast halls were pain and heartbreak. 

His vision grew spottier and dark spots entered his line of sight. The spirits around him felt empathetic and sorrowful, adding to the sorrow and pain within him until he could no longer differentiate the emotions. 

He had faintly heard the curses of the king who was this close to killing him, along with the strong and panicked commands of the wizard below, but he could not make out what the words meant. He only registered being dropped onto the cold, unforgiving of the stone floor. 

He scrambled on weak legs and pushed himself up, unseeing. His vision had not yet returned and everything remained dark. He heard the sound of someone urging him down and he mindlessly followed the command, tumbling to the opening before he wavered in and out of consciousness. 

His oxygen deprived brain and his severely malnourished body created a toxic mix that he could not recover from in a timely fashion, something the others had yet to notice as they urged him on. 

So, it was of no surprise to him when he lost his balance and fell like a limp doll down the front of the gates and landed with a splat into a dirty puddle. 

He was not aware of anything that happened next. 

.oOo.

Being thrown into a new situation, when you are used to something completely different is wholly uncomfortable. 

However, Sigrid liked to think that her ability to handle situations was better than some. In the span of a couple of weeks she had steadily lost or was taken from everything she had known. Her childhood home was gone, as was the peace that came with living in a small town you had never before left. 

She knew the death of her mother had a heavy toll on her father, and sought out to help him. However, she was much more work-inclined than chore-inclined. She couldn’t do the cooking very well, and she didn’t like watching over Tilda, though she did love her little sister dearly. She much preferred doing the laundry and staying out looking for work, even though there rarely was any. 

Many times she found herself picking the pockets of some of the more boorish guards, or the richer members of Esgarothian society. It wasn’t hard, and she was never caught, and it was always worth it when she was able to buy just this many more fish and claiming the vendor had thrown in more for free out of pity. 

She had been used to this, had carved a small place for herself in the harsh biting winds on the lake. Now she needed to build herself up again like the ruins of the city they now resided in. 

Bain had taken on the job of reassuring Tilda and keeping her largely distracted, and Sigrid scoped out the city, managing to find adequately safe buildings to secure their people in. 

The elves had come and gone and delivered food and blankets to them, and Sigrid found herself grateful, but angry. If the elves had all this food, why hadn’t they shared it sooner. It was no secret they had been starving under the care of the Master of Laketown, whose name was so unimportant and easily forgotten that nobody knew it. 

So it was her anger that made her join her father as he, the wizard, and the elves went to talk with the dwarves who had killed the dragon. She had overheard, however, that it was actually the child Bilbo who had killed the dragon single-handedly, but others insisted it was impossible and wrote off the claims the elf had spoken. 

The dwarves seemed angrier, more volatile than when they were under her roof weeks ago. 

She actually jumped when the dark haired leader dwarf had shot the arrow in front of the king elf’s mount. The subsequent yelling match did not aid her nerves in any sense. 

However, she had sat along silently until small little Bilbo had jumped up to the king elf’s defense. Her father had let out a terrified shout at the sight of the small boy dangling by his neck over the tall stone wall. She had not been any better, letting out a gasp and a cry. It seemed others were similarly affected. The Elf king’s son had gasped in surprise and horror as well. 

“Cursed be the wizard that forced you on this company!” The dwarf king shouted, wringing the boy’s neck and shaking him around. 

“If you don’t like my burglar, then please don’t damage him. Return him to me. You’re not making a very splendid figure as King under the Mountain, are you, Thorin, son of Thrain?”

Sigrid didn’t think the boy was very much a burglar at all, even if the wizard had called him that. 

Her heart dropped as Bilbo was lifted once more and throne behind one of the parapets, out of sight of the crowd. 

“Never again will I have dealings with wizards or Shire rats!” 

“Come, Bilbo,” the wizard called.

“Leave this place! You are hereby exiled from the kingdom of Erebor!”

Bilbo’s curly hair appeared from behind the gap in the wall and he seemed to waver as he climbed atop the gap and staggered to the edge. 

Sigrid’s heart had not left her throat and when Bilbo finally fell over the wall and landed in a pile at its foot, she did not realize the scream let loose had been from her. 

The wizard jumped off of his horse in a panic and the elf prince joined his mad dash as they ran towards the boy’s body. 

Her father had clutched her shoulder in fear and sorrow and she placed a hand atop it, before turning around and burying her face within her father's coat, hoping she would forget the sight she had just witnessed. 

When she next looked up, it was to the sight of Bilbo being carried in the wizards cloak as he hurried back to his horse. 

“Father?” She sobbed “Is Bilbo going to be okay?” 

“I don’t know sweetheart, we can only pray.”

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Angst!!!! Hahahaha. >:8)


	19. Spirits Drifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallen off of the ramparts, it seems Beijar is in a spot of trouble. And with a war approaching, what is he to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love y'all so much... I read and reread y'alls comments all the time, so thank you for that.
> 
> A chapter for you today! I finally finished the epilogue and I can tell you guys would like it. Also, I was watching Moana again last night and made the discovery that Beijar looks very much like Moana and Yavannah looks exactly like Te Fiti, do with that information what you will I just thought it was really cool. 
> 
> Not much to say other than I hope you guys enjoy the chapter today, I won't be posting again until Monday. 
> 
> Chapter title is after Brian Eno's "Spirits Drifting" on his album "Another Green World"

.oOo.

It seemed to Beijar that everytime he fell unconscious, or fell asleep he would wake up in a different place. It happened in Mirkwood, and in Laketown, and now it is happening again. 

His brain was hazy and his vision was still blurred as he regained consciousness. The ceiling this time was canvas. He was in a tent. 

He was consumed by pain. Fire licked up his arm and down his torso. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe, and his throat burned alongside his lungs. His head felt as though it had split in two down the middle. He felt nauseated, parched, hungry, too hot, too cold, too everything. It was overwhelming.

“Peace, dear boy, peace.” The calm, deep rumble of Gandalf’s voice put him at ease instantly. He wouldn’t die with the wizard so near. He tried to speak, but the strain on his larynx was too much and instead a painful wheeze emerged from his cracked lips. “It seems as though it will be a little bit before you are able to communicate properly.”

A whine emerged from his mouth this time. He was desperate to find out what had happened and whether or not the damage was permanent. Between the pain and fever, he couldn’t take stock of his body, and it set him on edge. It seemed Gandalf understood his intention and spoke again. 

“You have a concussion, two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and swelling of the throat, not aided by the scars there.” 

He could deal with this. The damage wasn’t as extensive as he had thought, the confusion and general disarray of his mind could be blamed on the concussion, and the pain in his throat, chest and arm made sense. He relaxed back into the lumpy pillow under him. He was famished and parched and hoped that Gandalf would once more understand and get him something to eat and drink. 

However, the old wizard had apparently decided that now was the best time to leave and walked out of the tent without any kind of goodbye. 

He stared up at the ceiling, straining his ears to try and hear anything that would indicate an approaching presence, but the sounds just made his head ache and vision blur. 

He lost track of time, trying not to focus too much on the pain, and he quite missed when it was that Bard had walked in the tent. 

“Bilbo, the wizard had said you had awoken. How are you fairing?” He hummed, trying not to irritate his throat. “Oh, right, apologies, I had quite forgotten.” The man took the seat Gandalf had vacated and set something down on a table next to the bed. “I brought you some broth. The elven healer who tended to you said this was all you will be able to eat for a little while while your throat heals.”

Beijar loved Bard, he thought tears must have sprung up in his eyes at the thought of something to eat. 

He had been struggling with garnering an appetite for years while he was isolated in the Shire, and he was sure the only reason he hadn’t starved and wasted away was due to the careful considerations of Hamfast and Belle who quickly took him in and helped him with his recovery from his shell shock. 

Bard came closer and adjusted the pillows and helped Beijar sit up in a recline so he could easier eat the broth with his good arm. He wished he had his voice to thank the man. 

The broth was warm and soothed the pain in his swollen throat, and the cold water Bard brought had acted as a balm as the bowl was emptied. 

He fell asleep not long after. 

.oOo.

It was days later that he had finally heard news of the approaching battle. 

Thousands of orcs marching to the mountain from somewhere he had quickly forgotten. 

His voice was still gone, and his shoulder and ribs still healing, but with the frequent meals of nourishing broth specially made by the elven healers, he felt better than he had the entire journey to this point. The scars on his face remained, but they were just that—scars. His broken finger was healed, and the burnt skin upon his left palm looked rubbery and overall disfigured, but he was satisfied with the fact that it no longer burned. 

The spirits of those in the mountain had not followed him after his banishment, and he didn’t know whether or not he should feel glad at the fact. He wanted to do right by not only the people of Dale, but the long forgotten people of Erebor that died and decayed in the cursed mountain with their murderer. He didn’t think they should follow a so-called traitor like him. He had no clue what to do with the mountain anymore. 

With his thoughts centering on the mountain, he couldn’t help but be brought back to the news of the Orc army. Gandalf had not been by, nor had Thranduil or Bard. The news of the army had drifted in through his tent by a neglectful soldier, talking loudly to his fellow. So, he was thoroughly left out of the loop. 

He had fought Orcs several times, had been injured by them and they had killed his parents and many other people he had known that didn’t deserve to die at the hands of such filth. He was no stranger to the beings.

So, with no clue of what was going on around him except for the vague threats of a force unknown, he set out to make a plan to ensure that everyone who he cared about, even begrudgingly, would make it out of the battle intact. 

This would be the culmination of everything he had worked for in his long life. His miseries and his triumphs would not measure up to the battle which would take place in the near future. 

He was going to win, even if it cost him his very life. He would protect them.

.oOo.

His injuries twinged as he held the sword aloft. 

It was usually lighter in his grasp, but with his recently sapped strength, its weight was more than he could handle. Nonetheless, he had no choice but to wield it. Between the ignorant forces of the elves, the huddled masses of the Laketown refugees, and the mind-addled threat of the dwarves in the mountain he really had no choice but to try his hardest and take down as many of the orcs as he could. He would be honored to die in battle, if it came down to it. 

He had planned to once more slip into the night, under the noses of the beings who inhabited the now occupied city of Dale. He wanted to avoid the possibility of Gandalf or Bard stopping him from the only course of action he could rationalize. 

If he ran he would be a coward, and if anybody he had grown close to had died and he hadn’t done anything himself, again, he doesn’t know what he would do. He would probably lose himself to grief once more. 

So, he prepared himself for battle. 

No chainmail around would fit his small, emaciated form, so he would have to do without—though the thought made him uneasy. His sword, strung to his hip when he fell over the battlements, was looking to be the only thing he had available to him. 

He finished off the cold stew and bread left for him and drank the last of the water afforded to him. Then, he vanished into the quiet night, mirroring the events that took place not but two weeks prior. 

.oOo.

It was quiet. 

In this field, soon to be strife with the bodies of friends, and enemies, the only sound he could make out was that of the beating of his heart and the blood in his ears. 

Not for the first time, he longed for the chirping of crickets, the croaks of the frogs, the screams of the cicadas. The creatures were common during the hot evenings in the Shire during summer, and those few years he was able to enjoy it whole and hale with his family by his side. 

Back then, where he is now would have been inconceivable. 

Wind rushed over the desolate plain that had seemingly appeared between the time he had hiked up the mountain and when he left Dale, though he supposed the reason he hadn’t noticed it before was due to the fact that he had been trapped in his mind, trying to figure out what to do and what went wrong. 

Then, the dark of the night lightened in color and a red sky filled his vision. 

It was a harbinger. An omen of what was to come. Soon, the dead grass would be cover’d with black ichor and the red blood of men. He supposed his blood would soon stain the surface too, and he thought of a distant future where this field would no longer be a battlefield, but rather a meadow, or perhaps a forest, nourished by the bodies that had returned to the earth. 

He supposed that this would be an okay end for him. His only regret was not finding his true form before death. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is a very short chapter, sorry bout that


	20. Beat of the Drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is upon us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh! 
> 
> You guys are going to hate me for the end of this chapter. But I don't care, the scene at the end and the beginning of the next chapter are scenes that had inspired me to write the story in the first place. 
> 
> Kind of short, but that's okay. I'll post the next chapter tomorrow so I'm not leaving y'all hanging. 
> 
> This past weekend has been really weird--I went camping and there were so many ticks and it was so hot, but there were a couple of small waterfalls that were gorgeous.

.oOo.

The battle had started all too quickly and far too slowly in his opinion. 

It had begun with the arrival of the dwarven forces of the iron hills, who, for some reason, approached from the eastern front rather than the northwestern front that they hailed from. However, Beijar figured it was largely to confuse the forces of the elves and men standing near the foot of the mountain in formation with Thranduil, Legolas, Bard, and Gandalf at the helm. 

Beijar himself had found himself under a rock to watch the proceedings from—he was suicidal but he wasn’t stupid. The fastest way to die in battle was not knowing what was going on. 

Then, proceeding a rather long and drawn out example of male posturing, something Beijar didn’t quite understand, but figured that Haltija really were quite different from the more modern races. A lot of shouting occured, and then the leader, who he assumed was Dain from the excited whispers of the dwarves almost three weeks ago, shouted something in Khuzdul—a command. 

A band of battle goats and their riders charged from behind the dwarven front line forces, heading directly towards the coordinated elves and cowering men. Thranduil shouted a command, and arrows flew at his behest. 

It really showed how advanced the dwarves were, and how well they knew their enemy when instead of being struck by the thousands of arrows in the sky, they had unleashed larger arrows that had a sort of spinning mechanism upon it that decimated the arrows mid-flight before crashing into the back of the assembled elves, effectively taking out a large number of people. 

Now, this was all well and good, and Beijar would expect nothing less from the feuding races, but he rather vehemently wished they had chosen a better time and place for such matters. He knew for a fact that at least Thranduil and Gandalf knew about the orcs, and he could not say that the elves didn’t know either, for they were the ones that originally spilled it to him that a greater force was at work here, and not merely some petty trifling between elves and dwarves that had been around for shorter than he had been in the Pre-Age. 276 years maybe a lot to some, but to him it was nothing. 

It seemed as though the elves had not learned their lesson and Thranduil looked quite alarmed as another three rounds of his army’s arrows had been knocked from the sky and his men taken out instead. 

Then, as he was expecting, but in a manner quite shocking, the ground rumbled threateningly, stopping all in their tracks. The shrieks and moans of a great beast sounded from below the ground. 

Immediately Beijar searched for the wizened face of Gandalf, hoping he at least would know how to deal with this foe. He shouldn’t have looked. The Istari looked rather taken aback, and quite frightened. And if a wizard was afraid, how would the mortal beings surrounding him react? 

Beijar missed the initial breech, but he turned his head just in time to see giant beings rise up from under the earth’s surface, their momentum enough to launch them several feet into the sky, screeching all the while. The sound was enough to make his poor over-sensitive ears ring. 

Four worms in total rose up, before retreating into their holes, leaving large corridors that ran somewhere unknown to the Haltija. However, the worms had disappeared as fast as they had come, and that did not bode well for the armies set at the base of the mountain. A stone grew three times the size of his stomach as a deep sense of foreboding flooded his every sense. The odds were low, and now they seemed to lower further in his favor. 

Several orcs appeared at the crest of the hill the worms emerged from, with flags built from bone and sinew. It wasn’t enough that their forces were great, but they also now appeared to be organized. The orc leader shouted something in that vile speech of theirs and the flags started moving. 

“The hordes of hell are upon us! To battle! To battle, Sons of Durin! Fight to the death!” Dain shouted, his voice booming across the armies that fought for good. And, answering his call, the dwarven forces withdrew from amongst the taller elves and towards the orcs, who were now pouring liberally out of the four large passageways. 

As the dwarves had banded together and charged, the elves gathered in formation, broken as it was after their losses in the brief battle beforehand, and stayed there. Standing silently as a rabbit would before it was caught. It seemed as though the elves would not lend a hand in this fight, they would rather the dwarves get their hands dirty and lose their men rather than defend the valley they too lived in. It was despicable, but there was little he could do about it. 

Beijar, who was now caught somewhere in the middle ground that nobody had gotten too yet, finally stepped out of his hiding place and took a deep breath. 

His eyes closed of their own volition and battle cries sounded from either side of him. This, this was familiar. He had been in battle before, he had won battles before. Knew the politics and fighting methods better than he knew himself. This was something he could do. And he would, one orc at a time. 

His sword was drawn and before the massive forces of the orcs, he felt small, infinitesimal. But this time, he did not feel helpless. He held power in this body. Where his height had been a hindrance before, it was an aid now. He could move faster, attack lower, move about unseen. These were his advantages now, and by Yavannah, he  _ was _ going to use them. 

From behind him, he could hear the grunts, cries, and clanging of metal as the dwarves formed their first defensive line. This left Beijar ultimately trapped. He wondered if Thorin, or Gandalf, or Thranduil, or even Bard had seen him run out, or if they got lost in the adrenaline rush of the approaching battle and had forgotten about him. 

The orcs grew closer, running at top speed. 

And then, their forces crashed into Beijar like the waves of an ocean. He lost himself in the movement of his sword, taking out all of the orcs around him. He aimed for the knees, effectively incapacitating them. All around him, were the sounds of swords clanging, screams sounded from the killed, and arrows were fired. It seemed the elves had joined after all, and the hope in his heart grew. Maybe, just maybe, they would make it. 

A horn blared from somewhere in the distance, and succeeding it was the coming of the cave trolls. These creatures proved to be very difficult opponents, especially for a tired Hobbit. Though, Beijar didn’t have to worry about it as a crowd of arrows flew through the air and took out a fair number of orcs along with some trolls. 

However, it was made apparent to the guiding force of the orcish armies that the spiked chariots the dwarves rode were formidable, and it seemed the trolls now targeted the riders, butchering, maiming, and crushing the poor dwarves to death. It made him sick. 

Beijar had been pushed further north through the battle, and the wind grew colder as many weeks had passed since autumn had started and the weather had always been significantly colder closer to the mountain. In the distance, he heard the crushing of stone and shouts. They must have started attacking Dale. He hoped that the townspeople would survive. Gandalf had yelled something not too long after, though Beijar ignored it. He needed to find a way to destroy the commanding forces. 

As he continued fighting, he noticed that the battlefield had grown quieter. The cries of effort had silenced and now only the clanging of swords could be heard. Even the orc forces had thinned out somewhat and he was no longer hidden by the masses. He now was actually fighting, rather than cutting down, and his efforts were resulting in carelessness. Sweat dripped down his back and his body was now littered with cuts. He couldn’t lose focus, or momentum. He couldn’t afford it. He kept going. 

It wasn’t long before he had the ruins in his sight. It appeared to be his destination, as the flags stemmed from the highest point on the highest tower. 

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and gather his strengths as he hid unseen from the orcs. Though it seemed his hiding place had an excellent view of the battle field below. And it was bleak.

The bodies of orcs, dwarves, elves, and men lay strewn about en masse. Even if they did win, their victory would not come without great loss, something he had recognized but not acknowledged up until this point when the realization had kicked him in the teeth and left him dizzy—gasping for breath and clutching onto stone. Distantly, he heard the sound of howling wolves, though he knew the threat was coming from his mind. They needed to finish this war once and for all. 

He stepped out of his hiding place, killing his way to the top. More and more orcs appeared in a frenzy, trying to take him out to their best ability, though Beijar, who had not long ago felt repulsed by his body, was able to strike faster than them. 

When he finally made it to the top, he was shocked to find the white orc. He shouldn’t have been, he should have known that the most dangerous orc in recent history would be here. But he had thought that the appeal of bloodshed would be too great an offer to pass up. 

His plan, which had still not fully formed, was now completely gone. 

The orc grinned and sent the other five orcs surrounding him to kill the hobbit. Beijar, who was starting to flag, used the adrenaline rush to propel him forward and after a long time, and several injuries later, was now standing face to face with enemy number one. 

“Well, little bug. I see you have not died yet. That is a shame. I had hoped you would succumb to your injuries. Oakenshield too.”

“As you can see, I’m still here. And so is Thorin.”

“Where?” The orc sneered “In the mountain? Tucked away safely from my armies?” He laughed. “Thorin Oakenshield is a coward, sending you here to do his dirty work. Did he think it below himself to avenge his bloodline? I can’t say I’m surprised.” 

“Thorin will come. When the time is right, he and the rest of the company will emerge from the mountain and bring us to victory.”

“Ha! So why is it that you’re here, hmm? I had thought you were travelling with the fools. So why aren’t you in the mountain?”

“I chose to leave, of my own volition.”

“I can imagine. Your own volition and a dash of dragon-madness, right?” 

Beijar remained silent, uneased by the lack of fighting between them. The orc threw his head back and laughed again. 

“You are hilarious! I’m almost sorry that I have to kill you.”

“So then why? Why are you doing this? Why are you talking to me and not fighting?”

“Because I pity you. I saw the way you had protected Oakenshield before. You were willing to protect him to your very last breath. Now, he is nowhere! He abandoned you! Your efforts were wasted on the likes of Durin.” The orc furrowed his brow in thought “However, I do like the sense of loyalty you possess. Even for a man who couldn’t give less of a shit about you. I could use a servant like you. All of these orcs, and all of my servants would turn on me given the chance. But you, you value loyalty above all else. Now, all I need you to do is be loyal to  _ me _ .” 

“I could never feel anything but hatred towards you, and any of Morgoth’s abominations.”

He could feel burning hatred and anger running through his veins. How dare the orc scum insinuate that his loyalty was misplaced, even if he felt it himself. He felt hatred towards himself for feeling even a little bit moved by the lies supplied by an orc. He was supposed to be pure! Above all of the hatred for things other than Morgoth and his abominations. How could he call himself a Haltija? 

He raised his sword with both hands, and charged the taller being, intent on killing it. A hoarse scream clawed its way out of his throat and the fight between the two began. 

Unlike fighting the dragon, fighting Azog was easier and somehow more difficult at the same time. He couldn’t use sneaky, underhanded tactics as easily with Azog as he had with Smaug. Azog had not the same weakness as Smaug, and he had left the arrow in the mountain, in the cold, decaying corpse of the beast. He hadn’t been allowed inside of the treasury after his fight with Thorin and couldn’t stomach going near the beast even if he was. 

More wounds appeared on his body, though other than the warmth of his own blood, he couldn’t feel any of the pain. He had landed a few blows on the white orc and felt proud of himself for the accomplishment. 

However, the energy he had lost earlier was now coming back to bite him and he grew sloppy, leaving his form weak and his defenses wide open. The pain was starting to make an appearance and fogging his mind. 

A shout sounded and he looked away from Azog, a soon to be fatal mistake. 

He met the eyes of first Fili, then Kili, then Tauriel, then Thorin, and finally Dwalin. 

Then, Azog’s great sword pierced his heart, and ran him through, lifting his small, light body off of the ground. 

Screams and shouts echoed through his mind as he fell to darkness. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you hate me, or do you hate me?


	21. An Empty Bliss Beyond This World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha, hey... hi. 
> 
> So, that last chapter sure was something, huh? :8) 
> 
> Well, fear not I will not leave you all to wait days before finding out what happened next so here we are! After this chapter we have the wind down and then the epilogue and then its...done! I'm crying. 
> 
> Hope you all like this chapter!

.oOo.

Fili had been the original advocate for leaving the mountain when the orcs came, though Kili and Tauriel had both thrown their support his way immediately. 

Thorin had been the main opposer, adamant that if he left the mountain, it would be lost to them forever. After knowing everything about Moria, having fought in Azanulbizar himself, he knew exactly the reparations that came with losing a dwarven stronghold, especially one they had just gotten back. This was no excuse, however, for the way Thorin ignored the plight of Dain and the army of dwarrow fighting for them. 

Dwalin had been sick, he was so upset. Chasing after Thorin and yelling at him. 

Thorin had sat on his grandfather’s throne, with the raven headdress upon his brow, and dressed in rich, mildewy furs that Dwalin supposed belonged to his husband’s family at one point or another before the dragon. It was a mark of madness. 

“Since when do we forsake our own people?” he yelled, emotion choking up his voice. They were alone, and in the silence Dwalin grew unnerved at the look in Thorin’s eyes as a distant torch flickered, casting his face in its moving light. 

He walked up the stairs, not wanting to be below his husband. 

“Thorin, they are dying out there,” he pleaded. 

Thorin leaned forward with a look of interest on his face, and for a single moment he thought he saw his caring One underneath the sickness. 

“There are halls beneath halls within this mountain,” he rasped, crushing Dwalin’s hope. “Places we can fortify… shore up… make safe.” The mad dwarf stood up suddenly, causing Dwalin to stumble back. “Yes… Yes. That is it.” His hand rested upon Dwalin’s shoulder, and the dwarf tried hard not to shake the hand of this stranger off. “We must move the gold further underground to safety.” Then, he started to walk away with purpose in his stride. 

Dwalin, seeing no choice, ran after him. 

“Did you not hear me? Dain is surrounded! They’re being slaughtered, Thorin.” The other dwarf looked thoughtful.

“Many die in war. Life is cheap. But a treasure such as this? It cannot be counted in lives lost. It is worth all the blood we can spend.”

“You sit here… in these vast halls, with a crown upon your head—and yet you are lesser now than you have ever been. Where is the man that I married? The one who would sacrifice all he had, all he was for the sake of his people. Where is the man I loved? He is here no longer.”

“Do not speak to me as if I were some lowly dwarf lord. That naive dwarf is gone. No longer is there… Thorin… Oakenshield…” The other dwarf held his hand to his brow as if it pained him and his words, especially his name, came out in rasps. “I am your king!” He shouted, his sword swinging wildly, where it managed to cut Dwalin on his cheek. 

He supposes the dwarf was correct. Thorin Oakenshield was gone. 

“You were always my king.” His voice broke. “You used to know that once… You cannot see what you have become. The dwarf I fell in love with would be ashamed of you.”

“Go… Get out.” Dwalin could see tears in Thorin’s eyes. “Before I kill you.”

The tears he had been holding back now sprung freely from his eyes, dripping wetly into his beard. 

He turned and marched back to the others, but not before stopping in an alcove and ridding himself of tear marks. 

In the minutes that followed his return to the dwarrow and elf, he went to the battlements and watched as Dain called the rest of the dwarves back to the mountain. There was no hope.

From behind him there was nothing but silence, until he heard someone standing and the words of Kili ringing out. 

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battle for us! It is not in my blood, Uncle.” So Thorin decided to join them. How pleasant. 

“No.” Dwalin turned around and was shocked into silence at the lack of rich furs and the raven crown. “It is not. We are sons of Durin. And Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight.” 

Thorin walked up to the group of dwarrow, though he looked straight at Dwalin as he addressed the group. 

“I have no right to ask this of any of you, but will you follow me one last time?”

Love and hope filled his heart once more at the sight of the dwarf he loved. They would have to speak later in private, but for now, this will do. 

Bombur blew the horn of attack, and so they rode off to battle, Thorin, Fili, Kili, Tauriel, Balin and Dwalin heading for the Ravenhill ruins where Azog sat smiling at the proceedings below. 

Rage propelled Dwalin as he followed after his husband with his brother, the elf and his nephews atop a spiked chariot, the small family intent on killing their tormenter once and for all. For the continuation and betterment of the line of Durin. 

The ride was hard, and they had lost track of Thorin quickly in the chaos, running into no less than three trolls, one of which had Bofur controlling it. Two of the rams were lost, and a wheel had been thrown off, and Balin decided to stay with the chariot, much to the heartache of Dwalin. 

His brother-in-law would kill him if Balin died, and he wasn’t so much inclined to let him die either. Though neither of them had any choice. There were only four rams left and five of them. So Dwalin, Tauriel, Fili, and Kili took the remaining rams and rode off to Ravenhill, and he was sure they would find Thorin there. 

And they did. 

They rode in silence through the ruins, hoping to use the element of surprise to their advantage against Azog. 

Bodies of orcs lay strewn about, their legs cut off at the knees. Someone on their side was already here, though Dwalin knew not who it was. It gave him hope, though, that they weren’t the only ones here. That they wouldn’t have to fight through several bands of orcs before they truly met their opponent. 

The higher they got, the more bodies there were. 

It wasn’t until he saw Azog on top of the tower with the flags that he knew who it was that had killed the orcs. 

Bilbo Baggins. 

It had been two weeks since he had seen or heard from him, and Dwalin felt awful about how the exchange between them was. Bilbo had been doing what he had thought to be right. He had tried to do what Dwalin had done, and shock Thorin out of the dragon-sickness. His actions had resulted in what Dwalin had thought to be a life ending way. Falling from that high up would have crippled any other person. It was wonderful that the hobbit lad had survived, though he was questioning why it was that he was involved in the battle at all. Surely he should be with the women and children of Dale. 

Dwalin watched as Bilbo and Azog locked swords. The fact that the halfling hadn’t fallen at the first strike was quite the accomplishment. 

Tauriel, Fili, and Kili stepped forward, seeming to try and help their friend, but it was too dangerous and if they distracted Bilbo at all, there was an extremely high chance that it would result in his death. He stopped the trio with a silent hand gesture, waiting himself to see if Thorin had come up with a plan. 

Looking over, however, the only thing he could see was fear, and anger. His husband would do something very stupid, if given the chance. 

The fight dragged on, and Dwalin felt pride at the fact that this tiny little halfling could hold his own against the toughest Orc in the past hundred years. Though it was not without sacrifice. For every cut Azog received, he doled out three more. Bilbo was flagging, stumbling, bleeding heavily as he grew more and more uncoordinated. 

Kili let out a scared shout at the appearance of a large gash on Bilbo’s arm and the hobbit looked over in time to make eye contact with them all. Azog reared up behind him and ran him through with his mighty sword, lifting up the boy’s fragile body. 

They all screamed as time seemingly slowed. Blood spilled out of the wound heavily and poured out of the Hobbit’s mouth. 

He was dead immediately. 

Tauriel and Kili started to sob, Fili yelled, and Thorin and Dwalin stood in solemn silence as the white orc paraded Bilbo’s impaled body for all to see below. The flags had not been moved since the fight between Bilbo and Azog started, though the dwarrow and elf had missed that. 

Below, the remaining dwarrow that had made up the company screamed Bilbo’s name in mourning, causing the white orc to smile wider. 

“I’ll kill you!” Thorin bellowed, sword drawn and shoulders hunched. He was ready to attack. 

.oOo.

When he next became aware, he could feel no more pain. 

The distant aches of old scars no longer lit up damaged nerves and he felt freer and purer than he had since the great purge of his people. 

A great lake spread out before him, still as the dead and reflecting the cloud-speckled sky, making the sight go on for ages until he could no longer see past the horizon. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounded. He jumped up, finding his feet easily, despite knowing he had been tired not moments before. 

A man, about his height stood in front of him. Then he realized how far from the ground he was, and all of his scars from the pre-age period were present, along with the ones he gained as a hobbit. He was back in his true form for the first time in tens of thousands of years. 

This did not explain what the man in front of him was. 

He seemed faceless, his features shifting every minute, unable to be pinned down by Beijar’s memory. 

“Beautiful?”

“The view. The place between worlds where Arda touches the realm of the gods, the Timeless Halls.” 

Beijar thought hard. 

“I’m Dead.”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“Eru Iluvatar, supreme Deity of Arda, The One, The All High, The Father of All, God of Arda, Creator.” 

“Do you meet everyone who dies personally like this?”

“No, Beijar, son of Beimyar and Bihana.”

“Then why? Why me? Why did my kind have to suffer so much? Why have I had to suffer so much?”

“Because, we needed you.” 

“Why? And again, Why me?”

“It wasn’t that you were special, rather that you were in the right place at the right time. It was just fate that you and your parents returned from your mass exodus. The responsibility fell to you three, until they died, then it fell solely to you.” 

“What responsibility?”

“Destroying the One Ring, defeating Smaug, protecting the mountain, the last stronghold between all that is good and the forces of evil further to the north east.”

“And how did you know I would do all that? I didn’t even realize that I did half of what I am supposed to have done.”

“Simple, you are Haltija. It is in your blood to want to defeat evil and restore balance.” 

Beijar stood there, at a loss. 

“So why… Why were my people slaughtered and forsaken by the gods? Did we not fulfill our purposes?” 

Eru looked away, seemingly mumbling something. Another person appeared, shorter than Eru but still taller than himself. 

“I am Aule, or Mahal, Father of the dwarves and husband to your mother, the green goddess.” His face, while shifting, looked not unlike the dwarves Beijar had met. 

“Why were we forsaken? Why did we receive no help when my people were dying?” Mahal took a deep breath. 

“Are you sure you want the answer? You will be unerringly changed.”

“I need to know why. I want to know why we were slaughtered, why I was turned into a hobbit, and I want to know how I can get back to my original form.”

“Yavannah had no right creating you in the first place,” Eru said, resentment lining his voice. “She hid them as well as she could, but the first beings that were supposed to set foot on Arda were the elves, my children. Your existence, the very fabric of your life, was not supposed to be. Your people were single minded and unable to do more than fight mindlessly against Morgoth’s twisted beings. Not to mention the magic you were granted. Where Yavannah found the strength to create such overpowered beings, I will never know.”

Anger grew in Beijar’s stomach. His people were culturally rich. Filled with wants, and needs, and hopes! How the great father of all could call his complex people simple was beyond him. 

“So, when I did find out about you all, I had to put a stop to it.”

“Eru gave me the task of coaxing Yavannah into a long sleep, mostly as a reward for the hard work she had done, creating the plants and liveliness of Arda.” The shorter God seemed to at least feel regret for his actions. “We cut the consciousness of your people off from her so she could not feel the suffering of her creations, and set about creating the sun, making the fires of the sky fall in the process.”

“So, because of your resentment, my people were slaughtered?”

Silence reigned through the echoing landscape between worlds. 

“What of those that died, did they at least get to go into the afterlife?” 

“No. We couldn’t let Yavannah know and so the spirits of your people returned to the earth.”

“My mother? My father? What of them? Surely their hobbit form would have let them return to Yavannah.”

“In this realm and the afterlife, your true forms are laid bare. No, they went back to the earth as well.” 

Beijar’s throat grew thick and his eyes burned. 

“And what of me? Am I to return to the earth as well? My consciousness and my spirit extinguished forever?” 

“No. You saved the lives of my people at the price of your own. I have asked it, and Eru has granted you the ability to return to Arda a minute after your death.” 

“It’s more than generous of me to grant you this privilege, and without the advocacy of Aule, you would have been returned to earth as you stated, your spirit extinguished.”

Beijar felt once more like crying. 

“Will I ever get my true form back?”

“I will make sure your magic is working correctly in order for you to transform back properly.”

“So my magic wasn’t working properly?”

“After 70,000 years, your magic had grown impatient and when the hobbits rested upon you and your parents, it imprinted upon the beings and acted out, changing you.” 

“So your saying it wasn’t anything complex, just my magic lashing out?”

“Precisely, but I suppose since I’m allowing you to continue on, I should return you at your peak.” 

“So does that mean I can transform between my hobbit and Haltija forms?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way for my people to come back?”

“No. I’m being more than gracious with you. They are never to return. However, I will grant them the rest of their existence as trees as they have been for the past thousands of years.”

“Thank you.”

“The next time you perish. We will be returning your soul to the earth like those before you. Just because I am granting you this allowance, does not mean you will receive any more special treatment.”

“I understand.”

“Then leave, finish the battle.”

The lake swallowed the sky and stars fell overhead as he melted into the ground.

.oOo.

He came back to consciousness with the sword still through his heart, though at the moment he could feel his magic holding his blood in. 

He opened his eyes to the sight of the battle below and the horrified faces of Gandalf and Thorin’s company. 

“Bilbo!”

“Lad!”

“No!” 

Grieving shouts rang out from around him as the booming laugh of Azog jostled him. The wound was sore, but by no means as much pain as it should have been. 

“I’ll kill you!” Thorin screamed, grief, anger, and hatred coloring his tone. 

He didn’t want to reveal his hand yet, and so waited until he was thrown off of the sword and laying bloody on the ground before he made his next move. 

A ray of sunshine peered through the clouds and fell upon his body, warming him. Was this a sign from the Gods that he should move? Aule would be mad if Beijar let the dwarves die, and there was no telling how Eru would react. They could redact his status of living, or they could strip him of his magic. 

He closed his eyes and reached deep inside of him, where his magic resided. He can’t believe he had forgotten about his magic. The instance with the stone giants and the evil ring now made more sense in his mind. And it was probably his magic reacting negatively to the leeching evil of the forest. 

Now, the once angered ball of light in his core had calmed significantly and sang at his mental touch, jumping eagerly to help. 

“ **_REVERT!_ ** ” His voice rang through the air, overpowering those around him, and his eyes burned at the rush of magic over taking his form. 

When it was over, he stood once more at over twenty feet tall. 

.oOo.

Azog sneered again and threw Bilbo off of his sword, his body rolling until it landed face up on the very edge of the tower. 

Dwalin couldn’t tear his eyes off of the body of the child he had come to know and love. Even if the boy had survived, he would have hated Dwalin for what had happened on the ramparts, and even before then when the dwarves had been in the throes of madness. He only wished he could apologize and try and make it up to the boy before his death. 

And then, as if it were a sign from Mahal, a single ray of sunshine shone upon the body. Even the gods seemed to be in mourning for the boy who had been nothing but brave and selfless, to the point of his own detriment. 

Then the body twitched, and Bilbo shouted something in several voices before his body lit up like the sun. The light was blinding and forced everyone in close proximity to close their eyes. 

When the light had stopped shining, Dwalin opened his eyes and dropped his jaw. 

Where the body of Bilbo Baggins had laid not but a moment ago, there was now a giant standing in its place. 

With another shout that sounded like the voices of thousands, a sword emerged from a spot of blinding light on the giant’s scabbard. 

It made quick work of Azog, who was no match for the taller being. It had picked the orc up and threw him at the ground, killing it instantly. Then it proceeded to look at the small group that Dwalin was in and smiled before jumping down easily and fighting. 

“Who was that?” Fili asked, dumbfounded. 

“Bilbo’s body is gone,” Tauriel said, her voice strong but sad.

“You don’t think the giant is Bilbo, do you?” Kili asked. Thorin and Dwalin couldn’t do any more than watch the proceedings. 

At some point during the fight with Azog, the giant eagles made a reappearance, along with Beorn. But the real star of the show was the giant… or giantess. Dwalin honestly couldn’t tell if the giant was male or female, but then it really didn’t matter, did it. They were obviously on their side as it was clearing out the orc armies with astounding efficiency, even for a giant. The five on Ravenhill soon joined the battle and fought as hard as they could.

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohoho, Bilbo isn't dead! Just on thin ice!!!
> 
> F'real though why was God so mean??


	22. The Sky Opened Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a giant on the battlefield, things are quickly coming to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Hi...
> 
> I meant to post yesterday, but yesterday was very chaotic for me so I am posting this chapter today and the epilogue right after that. 
> 
> We are finally coming to the end!! I'll be writing a whole big ol' speech on the last chapters notes so stay tuned. 
> 
> Chapter title is after: "The Sky Opened Up" by Angel Olsen

.oOo.

It was only an hour later that the war finally came to a close. 

The field before them was filled with the deceased. Piles of dead orcs made an appearance every few feet and the corpses of dwarrow, man, and elf alike littered the ground. They had won the war, but the cost had been too high. 

People were looking for their friends and family on the battlefield. Injured people leaning against other injured people who had never met before. Elves carried dwarrow to the hastily assembled healing tents, and vice versa. They were equal in their deaths, and so treated each other as equals in the face of such great tragedy. 

Dwalin linked arms with Thorin and made their way down to the field to try and find the other members of the company. He couldn’t help but hope that his brother had survived. 

They all seemed to have gathered around the sitting figure of the giant, like it was a meeting spot. 

The first thing he did was hug Balin, and crack their heads together. Hopefully, there would never be any more excitement in his lifetime. Travelling across Arda while being hunted, staying with elves, getting captured by goblins, flying on an eagle, taking care of a sick boy while almost starving to death and then getting captured by elves before escaping and then entering Erebor before falling into stark madness and then fighting in a war was all too much for how short a period it had been. He was glad for the reward of prosperity at the end, but he would also like to establish a home and live out the rest of his life peacefully. 

Now, the company plus an elf, plus the elf’s friend, plus the elf’s friend’s father, and the wizard, and the new lord of Dale and his three children were gathered around the giant buzzing with curiosity. 

“May I ask who you are?” The wizard started, and Dwalin was glad for it. He couldn’t imagine anything coming out of his mouth. 

“I am Beijar, though you all know me as Bilbo Baggins.” 

“Bilbo? But how?” Bard asked, not a little bit nervous.

“You don’t look like Bilbo! All of your scars and the gold on your face is gone!” Kili shouted.

And indeed, the scars were gone. The marks on his neck, face, hands, and arms—all gone. The gold that had adhered to his face and had melted onto his hair weren’t there anymore. New scars he didn’t recognize marred this stranger’s face. A long line going from his right temple down to his jaw, a mark going across the pointy bridge of his nose, and his hands were covered in several little cuts, like his mighty fist had once gone through a large pane of glass.

That was not where the differences ended. His hair had fallen at some point and created a waving waterfall that fell down his back and trailed onto the ground behind him. His face was sharper, more aristocratic and elven looking rather than the soft, smooth planes Dwalin had associated with the halfling. His eyes were shaped differently, were thinner, reminding Dwalin of the southern dwarves that lived closer to the ocean. 

Not to mention his height. If this really was Bilbo, Dwalin didn’t know how the lad had lived going from shorter than Mannish children to taller than any being Dwalin had ever seen, taller than the trees themselves. 

“I wasn’t ever a Hobbit.” The giant started, and his accent—present when he was a halfling, made more sense now. “I’ve only been a Hobbit for the past thirty and three years.” 

“So you are older than that?” Balin asked. A nod was given. 

“I’m older than everyone here, older than the mountains, the sun, and the moon.” A beat of silence commenced.

“Then why’d ye let us think ye were a wee bairn?!” Bofur yelled.

“I never said I was. You all just assumed and I wasn’t trying to tell everyone my secret. And I  _ had _ been here for thirty and three years, I just didn’t specify that it was spent being a Hobbit rather than a giant.” 

“Why is it secret, and what are you?” Gloin yelled, ever the suspicious one. 

“I didn’t want Eru trying to kill me again, so my people hid and I carried on hiding, even though I took on a different form.”

That was certainly unsettling. The god of gods had wanted Bilbo dead. Silence reigned over the battlefield once more as that bit of information sunk in. 

“My dear boy, we just saw you killed by Azog, how did you survive?” Gandalf asked, more than a little incredulously. Bilbo had everyone’s full attention. 

“Well, I did die. Then I met Eru and he said he needed me to stop Smaug, Sauron, the One Ring, et cetera. And since I already did those things, he was prepared to let my soul join with the Earth like my parents, but then Aule came and pleaded to Eru to let me return since the dwarves were still in danger with Azog and what not… So that’s how I ‘survived’ I guess.”

More silence. Everyone present was baffled. The elves especially had looked more pale than before and had not uttered a single word. Dwalin would have been amused at the prospect but the shock was a little much for him too and he wavered where he stood. 

“So you not only killed Smaug, you single handedly destroyed Sauron and the One Ring?” Thranduil rasped. 

“Yes, although I hadn’t meant to destroy Sauron and the One Ring. It happened quite by accident.” That was a kick in the teeth. 

“Ye still haven’t told us what ye are!”

“I don’t think you would know even if I did tell you. My kind has been in hiding for over 70,000 years. Not even the first age elves knew about us. Glorfindel especially was very confused when I told him.”

“How did you turn into a Hobbit then?” Fili asked, his face was blank in shock. In fact it seemed everyone was shocked—though their facial expressions were all different and Dwalin would have found it amusing except he too was suffering from the shock. 

“Accidental magic, though I had forgotten that I had magic. I was a tree.” 

“How did you turn back into...whatever you are?”

“Magic, and some help from Eru.”

“Can you ever turn back into a Hobbit?”

“Yes, but I need to rest for a little bit, my magic is still settling from whatever Eru did.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

“Are you a boy or girl?” Ori asked blushing fiercely, and winced when Nori smacked the back of his head. 

“Both, though my Hobbit form is male. Very confusing.”

“Thank you.” Ori said, still blushing. Bilbo nodded and smiled indulgently. 

“You said you had a different name than Bilbo. What is it?”

“Beijar. I only went by Bilbo because it was required when my parents and I assimilated to Hobbit culture.” He wrinkled his nose, and Dwalin could now wholeheartedly believe the being in front of him really was Bilbo—Beijar. The halfling had done it often enough. “I don’t prefer the name however.” 

“How old are you? You said you were older than all of us.”

“I don’t know for sure, time moved differently when I was born, but I’m around 73,777 years old.”

Baffled, the silence reigned on for longer than it had previously and Bilbo—Beijar took the opportunity to slump down against a pile of rubble and nap. Dwalin could never imagine this would happen. Beside him Thorin stayed silent. They still needed to talk, things had been put off with the reclaiming of Erebor, and the gold sickness, and the consequent war, and now the Hobbit they had bullied turned out to be an ancient giant being. Dwalin needed to sleep and recover for at least a month before he did anything else. 

“When I can shrink down again, I’ll help bury the dead in the mountain.” Beijar said, his voice quiet in the roaring silence. 

.oOo.

His insides hurt, but it wasn’t from injury. His magic was building up and tearing through his organs with great glee at being righted once more. It just needed a bit to reacclimate. 

He could feel dirt in his hair and resigned himself to a dirty scalp until everything was done and he could find somewhere to bathe. He would like to bathe in his regained Haltija form, but that seemed far fetched unless he wanted to bathe in the lake. He in fact did not. 

His mind was still reeling from the interrogation he went through minutes ago. He knew, in the back of his mind that he would have to answer their questions, but he had been so caught up in the rush of meeting Eru and Mahal that he hadn’t the time to think beyond the present moment when he had been ripping the now tiny figures of the orc army apart. 

His heart hurt at the fate of his people. He supposed they weren't people anymore, just trees. Their consciousness gone, their souls to be returned to the earth when they inevitably got destroyed. His parents—never to return to Yavannah’s embrace, their decomposed bodies that of a Hobbit’s and not of their ancestors’, not of their son’s. He, himself, was never going to return to Yavannah. His creator barred from ever knowing what had truly happened to her people. 

Beijar groaned and sat fully up. He supposed he should follow through with his promise of burying those who died in the mountain. The memory of their haunted faces, tormented at their deaths, was enough to motivate him into walking towards the mountain he had been thrown out of. He didn’t know if he was still banished, but Thorin could no longer do anything to him—not when he had full access to his magic. So he went straight on ahead. 

His next obstacle was getting _ inside _ of the mountain. 

“Damn it all.” He cursed under his breath, he was going to have to transform again. Maybe he would try something different than a Hobbit. He was tired of being shorter than everyone. 

With that thought in mind, he decided he would let his magic choose how he would present and let it loose. 

When he next opened his eyes it was to a shorter height and the wild eyes of everyone around him. He turned to the nearest dwarf, Fili. 

“What am I now?” His voice was softer, more melodic compared to a Hobbit. 

“An elf.” Hmm. His magic was gonna get him in trouble. He examined his hands, and sure enough they were long and graceful, much like Tauriel’s—though his skin remained darker than the other elves. 

“Suitable,” he said in response when it was clear the dwarf next to him expected a reaction. 

He would have fun with his magic in a way he had never before been allowed. 

Then, he made his way to the market, a team of dwarves behind him to help move the bodies and rubble. The sight in front of them was as horrific as it was the first time he encountered it. However, a gentle light drifted through the high windows and he could see the distant shades of the dwarves joyfully jumping around and shouting their gratitude for him to hear. 

Looking back, he noticed that none of the alive dwarves were able to see or hear the spectres. 

That suited him fine. 

“ _ Gentle children of Mahal, I release you from your burdens on this world. Go on and join your creator. I will ensure your bodies are laid to rest. _ ” Cheers rang up around him and the spirits of children shouted gleefully. 

.oOo.

It was a few weeks later when they were all together in a meeting that thoughts of the future were brought up. 

“I’m going with Tauriel no matter what.” Kili made sure his stance was clear. It didn’t matter if Tauriel was going far away, or if she was staying in the mountain. He would follow her to the ends of the earth and even then further. 

The two made eye contact and their hands met under the table. Uncle Dwalin quirked an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise say anything. Thorin’s mouth pursed until his lips were no more than a thin line. 

“I too would wish Kili to stay with me. To the ends of the earth and back I would have him follow me, and I him.” This got a quirked eyebrow from Thorin as well. 

“And what is it you propose to do?”

“I want to see more of the world, uncle. I want to see the ocean and walk through the hot lands and stomp through marshes. I want to experience it all before I have to come back and act as the Heir’s Heir. I want to be free, to be me, to love who I choose.”

Uncle Thorin seemed to mull it over, his eyebrows drawn in a thoughtful manner. Dwalin simply leaned back in his chair, though he winked and smiled at Kili under his heavy brows and through his thick beard. Kili squeezed Tauriel’s hand, shooting her a secret smile. 

They had talked for a long time about his actions the first two weeks in the mountain. The courting proposal that he had no memory of had been tearfully recollected to him, along with the memory of him forgetting who he was talking to and thinking she had left. 

It had not been fair of him, to ask her such delicate questions. He knew that he had no control over his actions, but he couldn’t help but think it was underhanded and manipulative. 

So they had both decided to take it slow. The question of courting and betrothal put off for the time being, but was able to come back in the future. He truly did want to spend the rest of his life with her, maybe start a family, but that could wait. They were both young and had gone through their own traumas. They would work on themselves and  _ then _ work on each other. 

“Yes.”

The simple word shook him out of his thoughts. 

“Yes?” 

“Yes, you may go out into the world with Tauriel. I give my blessing. Not that you would have needed it anyway. You would have just snuck out if I had said no. I only wish for you to wait until your mother and uncle Frerin arrive before embarking. Your mother especially would kill me if I let you go before she had the chance to see you again.”

Joyful tears filled his eyes as he threw himself at his uncle in a loving embrace.

“Thank you so much Uncle Thorin!” 

He quickly ended the hug and went back to his place next to Tauriel and shared a smile with her. A life outside of society sounded perfect, especially with the person he loved. 

.oOo.

Beijar switched between his Haltija form, his Hobbit form, and his elf form frequently. The freedom he had been granted was too much to not use. 

The market place had been cleared of bodies and the battle field had been cleared, and in the future, he hoped a field of wildflowers grew in its place. Where once there was death, only life had room to thrive. 

He spent his days in the mountain, helping rebuild. Using his diplomatic skills, he had banded together a council with dwarves, elves, and men for multiracial relationships. 

Still, he had been uneasy in the mountain. Sometimes struck with memories of cowering from enemies unseen. His mind had festered, resulting in fantastic nightmares that left him heaving for air. Even now, the nightmares had not gone away. But the set of rooms he had been given sure made them more comfortable. 

He found that now there was a lot of talking. Talking with Thorin, Fili, Dwalin, Bofur, Nori… pretty much all of the dwarves. They had a lot to atone for, and they knew this. They also knew that there was nothing they could truly do to make up for it. Maybe at the beginning when it was just racism bred from ignorance that had inspired their cruelty, but as their time together went on it had become inexcusable. Instead, they would prove that they were worthy of being his friend. It had hurt, their cruelty towards him, and he wasn’t going to lie and say it didn’t, they had nearly broken him numerous times. He needed them to compensate for their actions. 

Thorin especially had much to make up for. He had been the cause for a significant amount of the hatred. Had damaged him severely. If Beijar had fallen even a little bit differently from the ramparts it would have resulted in his death. Thorin knew this. He had no excuses for his behavior—something Beijar was grateful for. He didn’t think he could handle it if Thorin had started listing reasons of why he had hated the Hobbit so. 

Instead, Thorin kept his distance at the request of Beijar. The dwarf gratefully listened to his requests and fulfilled them with understanding and self-loathing. But Beijar was not cruel and would not demand the impossible from Thorin. He would give him the chance to start over. 

A fresh start didn’t sound so bad, especially after the dwarves sat down and examined their behaviours closely. Beijar would allow them that. 

.oOo.

Dwalin had cornered Thorin a week after the battle, when things had started to cool down and everybody wasn't busy. 

“Thorin.”

“Dwalin.”

“We need to talk. We have needed to talk.”

“Alright then, we shall talk.” Thorin had looked so defeated, so completely aware of all of his downfalls and misgivings. Good. 

“How you treated Bilbo, I mean Beijar, I can’t forgive you for. I know he is the forgiving type and won’t hold a grudge against you forever, but dwarves can. I don’t want to have to resent you for the rest of our lives when we could just move on.”

“Then what do you propose I do? I know I messed up!”

“Hey. There is no need to yell. We are mature adults and we can handle this.” He knew exactly why Thorin was getting so defensive. “I’m not leaving you and you aren’t leaving me. I still love you more than life, but I need time. You need time. We need to find ourselves again, find each other. After everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve done… we’ve changed. You aren’t the same Thorin I fell in love with at Azanulbizar. I’m not the same Dwalin you married. That’s okay. People don’t have to stay the same. It isn’t anybody's fault. We just need to slow down and rethink who we are.”

Thorin sighed and melted into the chair he was sitting in, weary and tired. 

“You just said you weren’t leaving me and then said you were going to leave me.”

“That is not what I said. I said we needed to make a strategic retreat before we can come back together again.”

“But… But what if you… What if you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s ridiculous. When I married you, I married  _ all _ of you. Your upsides and your downsides. I knew what I was doing when I fell in love with you, and even though I know we need a break, I am confident that I will never stop loving you. In fact, I can’t wait to come back together again and be stronger than before.”

“Okay… Okay. I think I can do it. I know I need help, knew I needed help. I just… didn’t know… I didn’t know how to ask. I still don’t know how to ask. Everything seems so unattainable… so improbable.”

“More unattainable and improbable than marching across the entirety of Middle Earth with only fourteen people and then getting Erebor back? You can do it. You’ve already achieved the unachievable. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“You’re right, as always.”

“Hah! You’re damn right I’m right.”

They shared a smile before Dwalin stood up and walked to Thorin and pulled him in a large embrace. 

“You aren’t alone. I love you.”

“Thank you. I love you too.”

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god? We're talking? and overcoming our traumas? :0
> 
> You can have a little Thorin/Dwalin... as a treat.


	23. Drunk and with Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... here's the promised speech!! 
> 
> So I started this fic on the 19th of January, 2019 at 3:00pm. I had been thinking about the concept for awhile, and before putting it on paper (or in a google doc) I would have never imagined how long it actually got. Here are some of the stats: Word count (including chapter marks and titles) is 85,674. The total character count is: 464,947. Really fucking long. I dreamed of the plot and certain scenes, and I wrote tirelessly. The main inspiration for this story was the scene where Bilbo is stabbed by Azog and transforms into an entirely different being and saves the Durins, but then came entire histories and fighting between gods, and a whole new species of people and a magic system.
> 
> I promised myself that I would finish it this summer, and I did, and when I posted it couldn't have been more perfect. You guys who have read and kudosed, and bookmarked, and commented, and subscribed... you really gave me the motivation I needed to finish this and I felt confident in my ideas when I posted them. 
> 
> Thank you everybody for reading this! I love you to life and there's nothing you can do about it. 
> 
> Chapter title is after "Drunk and with Dreams" by Angel Olsen.

.oOo.

A year later and things were good. 

A new era of peace reigned through the valley. 

Erebor and Dale, once desolate wastelands, now were prosperous once more. In fact, they were better than they ever had been. Bard, who had experienced the same pitfalls that came with poverty, had understood the plights that befell the people better than anyone. 

Sigrid travelled west, eager to find something she was passionate about. She ended up in Rivendell studying with Erestor in the large libraries the valley hosted. There, she fell in love with a lovely young elf maiden by the name of Aerel. 

Bain sought out an apprentice with a teacher, eager to help impoverished and orphan children learn how to read and write. Though young, he was ambitious. 

Tilda was enjoying her childhood as her father intended, no longer cold and starving, but able to play with the other children in the city without fear. 

Legolas left. His father, while he had participated in battle, was still cold and bitter. And Legolas was his own elf. He left shortly after the reveal of the Hobbit child’s true identity, in search of the rangers of the north, the Dúnedain, particularly a young lad named Arathorn. 

Thranduil, after seeing how his behaviour had led to the leaving of his son, set out to rehabilitate the Greenwood and restore it to its former glory. 

Thorin got help. With the aid of Dwalin and the others, a suitable mind healer had been found and Thorin talked to her for hours once a week. He was a better king than his grandfather. 

Dwalin became fast friends with Beijar, and couldn’t help but feel fatherly affection for the man, despite the Haltija being older than him. He had also just moved back in with Thorin, spirited at his husband’s recovery. 

Nori became the kingdom's spymaster. He was always good at hiding in the shadows, but now he was getting paid for it, despite already being rich. He helped to keep all the aspiring criminals in check and offered them positions as spymaster apprentices. He would give them the chance he had never gotten before. 

Bofur opened a toy store with Bifur. Bifur’s carving ability mixed with Bofur’s painting ability proved to be an unmatchable duo. Bifur was finally talking about his traumas with another mindhealer, and found that he was happier in Erebor than he had been alone in the Blue Mountains. He would always remember his wife and child, but with happiness instead of heart-wrenching sorrow. Bofur, too, became quick friends with Beijar, especially after they had the chance to properly sit and talk alone without any extenuating circumstances. 

Bombur was granted the ability to cook in the master kitchen where he reigned happily, his wife and many children greeting him at home everyday. 

Ori took over the restoration of Erebor’s great library, unable to comprehend the thought of letting priceless books be lost to time. The new librarian met weekly with the Haltija to compile a book of the History of his people, so that even when they were gone, people would know about them.

Dori opened a tailor and tea shop. Despite not needing to work, he happily went about owning and running the shop, able to now procure teas and fabrics from far off places with his share of the riches. 

Gloin happily reunited with his wife and son and ran the banking guild with an iron fist, not letting any corrupt politicians touch the workers unions. 

Oin was grumpily fixing up the medical halls, though he was happy to do it. With the help of some elves it was a healing wing that rivaled Lord Elrond’s—a fact he was very smug about. 

Balin and his Husband Kiluk were edging into retirement, passing off their jobs to a younger generation so they could spend more of their time together. Balin’s epiphany of having too much on his plate had turned out true and his shoulders finally relaxed at the lack of a busy schedule. 

Fili was a wonderful heir, taking charge of the diplomatic relations between Greenwood, Dale, and Erebor. He was firm on his stance that whatever happened before the battle was never to repeat. He also met a beautiful female dwarf named Marma and was focusing on creating a courting gift for her. 

Kili stayed true to his uncle’s promise and waited until his mother and uncle arrived at the mountain before taking off with Tauriel. They had just stopped at Argonath—or the Gates of Argonath. Their travels were met with great luck and so far nothing bad had befallen the two. 

Gandalf had revealed the threat that was Saruman. The once white wizard had his powers taken from him by none other than Eru himself, disappointed at the dark mark on his servant’s once pure heart and mind. It was Saruman who had spelled the rock giants to fight endlessly. Gandalf himself took to roaming as he had done before the adventure, searching out the next injustice he was able to right. 

Beijar and the dwarves had finally started over and were learning about each other in ways they had never known about each other. The Haltija spoke more of his life long ago, letting Ori copy it down to preserve the knowledge of his people. The heartache caused by their extinction was hard to manage at times, but he found some closure in talking about his culture and his religion and what life was like before the sun. It was a kind of peace that Beijar had never felt before.

He had found his pack in the healing halls of the renewed Greenwood and happily set his most prized objects on his new mantle. 

He wrote letters to Hamfast and Belle and their encouragement and pride was overwhelming. He couldn’t get through a letter without tears. He no longer regretted going on the adventure, and he was glad he could keep a piece of his Hobbit life with him in the form of his friends.

And in the end, they were all happy. Bad things still happened and life isn’t without its troubles, but now they were able to overcome the bad with friends and family at their side. 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it was all a dream... just kidding. 
> 
> Goodbye everybody! And stay tuned for the second installment in the series where I have the History of the Haltija.


End file.
